HER    SON 


•NIY.  OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY.   I  OS    ANOFTF* 


BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

THE    HILL 
BROTHERS 

THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE 
THE    SHADOWY   THIRD 
THE    PINCH    OF    PROSPERITY 
JOHN    CHARITY 
LIFE     AND     SPORT     ON     THE 
PACIFIC    SLOPE 


Susan  had  just  made  what  appeared  to  him  the  most 
astounding  statement  he  had  ever  heard" 

(p.  317) 


HER     SON 


A    CHRONICLE    OF   LOVE 


By 
HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
WALTER     H.     EVERETT 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
1907 


Copyright,  1906,  1907, 

BY 
H.  A.  VACHELL 

Published,  September,  1907 


To 
MY  MOTHER 


2133479 


NOTE 

A  FEW  of  my  English  critics — notably  the  more 
youthful  to  whom  sentiment  is  as  henbane — have  chal- 
lenged not  only  the  credibility  of  my  heroine's  conduct 
but  also  its  possibility.  The  story  happens  to  be  a 
true  one.  Of  course  I  am  well  aware  that  this  is  not 
an  adequate  reason  to  justify  its  reappearance  in  the 
guise  of  fiction,  but  it  is  worth  recording  that  since 
the  book  was  published  in  England  a  second  case  of 
a  young  lady  adopting  a  child  and  presenting  it  to  the 
world  as  her  own  has  been  brought  to  my  notice.  At 
any  rate,  in  America,  where  women  occupy  so  high  a 
place,  and  inspire  in  men  a  devotion  and  reverence  less 
common  upon  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  I  venture  to 
believe  that  Dorothy's  altruism  will  be  regarded,  even 
by  undergraduates,  as  natural  and,  with  a  due  regard 
to  the  circumstances,  inevitable. 


Give  her  the  living  child  .  .   .  she  is  the  mother  thereof. 

I  KINGS  iii.   27 


CHAPTER  I 

As  soon  as  she  had  parted  from  Gasgoyne,  Dorothy 
Fairfax  walked  to  her  tiny  house  in  Oakley  Street, 
reaching  Albert  Bridge  just  two  minutes  after  leaving 
Battersea  Park.  Halfway  across  she  paused,  looking 
back,  smiling  and  faintly  blushing,  because  she  could 
see  the  trees  beneath  whose  discreet  shade  her  lover 
had  kissed  her  with  a  parting  injunction  to  scurry 
home  before  the  rain  fell.  Overhead,  a  black  thun- 
dercloud obscured  the  radiance  of  a  July  after- 
noon ;  and  the  air,  like  the  water  in  the  river,  seemed 
to  flow  sluggishly  and  in  eddies,  as  if  driven  by  oppos- 
ing forces.  Dorothy  noticed  that  the  tide  had  begun 
to  ebb,  and  this  stirred  in  her  for  the  thousandth  time 
a  vague  pleasant  melancholy,  and  the  sense  of  the 
rhythm  of  things :  the  systole  and  diastole  of  Nature's 
heart.  Her  reflections  were  scattered  by  a  tremendous 
clap  of  thunder,  which  shook  the  bridge.  The  foot- 
passengers  quickened  their  pace,  glancing  up  with 
eyes  dazed  by  the  glare  of  the  lightning.  It  was 
certain  that  in  a  moment  the  rain  would  come  down 
with  tropical  violence.  Dorothy  lifted  a  well-hung 
skirt,  and  began  to  run.  More  than  one  woman 
watched  her  with  envy,  more  than  one  man  with  sur- 
prise and  delight  as  she  sped  swiftly  and  smoothly  on, 
running  with  the  ease  and  grace  of  Atalanta.  Not 
that  she  was  a  beauty.  Her  features  were  irregular, 


2  HER     SON 

challenging  interest  rather  than  admiration.  But  her 
air  of  sanity  and  health — the  bright  hair,  the  fine  skin, 
the  clear  eyes — appealed  irresistibly.  Below  this  charm- 
ing surface  and  slightly  obscured  by  it  lay  a  certain 
authority  and  decisiveness  not  in  the  least  aggressive 
or  masculine,  but  distinctly  feminine  and  modern:  the 
look  of  the  capable  woman  who  knows  that  a  definite 
place  in  the  world  has  been  assigned  to  her. 

"  Oh,  you  nymph ! "  muttered  an  actor,  meeting  her 
vivid  glance  as  she  flashed  by  him. 

She  caught  the  murmur,  and  smiled.  Huge  drops 
of  rain  were  pattering  down  upon  a  beautiful  new 
hat.  Through  her  thin  linen  dress  she  could  feel  the 
lashing  shower.  Truly  she  was  a  nymph  flying  from 
a  force  which  already  had  overtaken  her.  Inevitably 
— so  she  reflected — she  would  be  drenched  through 
and  through  before  she  reached  the  Middlesex  shore. 
Realising  this,  she  stopped  running,  and  allowed  herself 
to  be  entertained  by  the  spectacle  about  her.  More 
than  half  the  people  on  the  bridge  were  panic-stricken 
by  the  lightning.  A  second  clap,  even  louder  than 
the  first,  provoked  a  howl  of  terror  from  a  stout  young 
woman  who  was  carrying  a  baby  on  one  arm  and  drag- 
ging a  child  of  five  by  the  other.  Both  baby  and  child, 
seized  with  the  contagion  of  fear,  howled  also.  The 
bridge  rocked,  groaning  and  travailing,  like  a  creature 
in  mortal  anguish. 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  sobbed  the  young  woman.  "  Ain't 
this  awful?" 

The  question,  addressed  to  none  in  particular,  was 
flung  to  the  wind,  which  whirled  it  on  to  Dorothy, 


HER     SON  3 

together  with  a  tall  hat  belonging  to  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman. Dorothy  stopped  both.  As  the  elderly  gentle- 
man retrieved  his  hat  with  mumbled  thanks,  Dorothy 
answered  the  young  woman's  question. 

"  It  is  not  awful,"  she  said  with  authority.  "  The 
storm  is  at  least  half  a  mile  away.  Let  me  carry  that 
baby ;  you  are  positively  dead  beat." 

With  a  firm  hand  she  took  the  baby  from  the  aston- 
ished mother  and  soothed  it.  The  rain  streamed  down 
so  thickly  that  neither  bank  of  the  river  was  visible 
from  the  centre  of  the  long  bridge. 

"  We  may  as  well  take  it  easy,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I'm 
soaking  and  so  are  you." 

The  stout  young  woman  glanced  at  her  purple  plush 
dress  and  then  at  Dorothy's  pink  linen  frock. 

"  I  nearly  killed  myself  a-runnin',"  she  gasped.  "  But 
it's  done  for.  Four  and  tenpence  a  yard,  too.  Keep 
up,  carn't  yer?  "  She  jerked  the  child's  arm.  "  An', 
look  'ere,  if  yer  stop  yer  noise  and  be'ave  yerself,  I'll 
see  that  the  thunder  an*  lightnin'  don't  strike  yer 
dead." 

The  child  stopped  sobbing.  Dorothy  laughed,  but 
not  unsympathetically.  Then,  noting  the  misery  with 
which  her  companion  regarded  the  purple  plush  gar- 
ment, she  added  softly :  "  My  hat  cost  me  two  guineas  ; 
and  I  can't  afford  another  this  summer.  We  must 
grin  and  bear  it." 

"  I  never  was  one  o'  the  grinnin'  ones,"  retorted  the 
stout  young  woman ;  "  and  I  can  an'  do  say :  *  God's 
will  be  done  ' ;  but  the  rain  might  have  held  off  till  I'd 
got  into  a  'bus.  My !  there  it  goes  agine." 


4  HER     SON 

This,  however,  was  the  last  clap.  The  storm  passed 
on  down  the  river,  leaving  a  delightful  fragrance  and 
freshness  behind  it.  The  sun  blazed  out,  transmuting 
all  things  from  lead  into  gold;  the  barges  on  the 
Surrey  side  looked  as  if  newly  painted  and  varnished; 
the  houses  along  the  Chelsea  embankment  suffused  a 
sort  of  rosy  radiance. 

"  Yer've  been  very  kind,  ma'am,"  said  the  stout 
young  woman,  as  she  took  the  baby  from  Dorothy's 
arms,  "  and  it's  queer  how  Biby  took  to  yer,  seein'  as 
she  allus  is  so  perticler  with  stryngers.  I  dessay 
yer've  one  or  two  of  yer  own  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Dorothy,  with  a  slight  blush.  "I'm 
unmarried." 

"  I  beg  pardon,  miss,  I'm  sure,  but  I  did  tyke  yer 
fer  a  merried  lidy.  An*  the  wy  yer  handled  the 
kid " 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  children,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  Good-bye." 

They  parted  at  the  end  of  the  bridge.  Dorothy 
walked  down  Oakley  Street  till  she  came  to  her  own 
house.  She  unlocked  the  front  door  with  a  latch-key, 
smiling  with  satisfaction,  because  it  was  so  delightful 
to  find  herself  at  home.  Within  five  minutes  she  had 
slipped  out  of  her  wet  things  and  into  a  dry  frock,  in 
the  bosom  of  which  she  fastened  a  fine  rose:  one  of 
a  bunch  which  Gasgoyne  had  sent  that  morning  with 
a  note  saying  that  he  would  be  in  Battersea  Park 
at  four. 

She  sank  into  an  easy  chair,  giving  herself  up  to  the 
thought  of  her  lover,  evoking  his  image,  hearing  his 


HER     SON  5 

deep  voice,  which  had  thrilled  her  from  the  first  moment 
they  had  met.  Always  Dorothy  had  known  that  such 
a  man  would  come  into  her  life,  and  that  when  he  came 
she  would  recognise  him  instantly  with  no  absurd,  semi- 
savage  flutterings  and  doubtings,  but  sanely,  joyously, 
triumphantly. 

Long  ago,  her  father  and  teacher,  the  famous  doc- 
tor, had  predicted  what  would  come  to  pass.  She 
could  hear  his  kindly  voice,  with  its  attractive,  pene- 
trating intonations,  saying :  "  My  dear  Doll,  your 
mate  is  looking  for  you,  and  I'm  training  you  to  know 
him  when  you  meet  him." 

The  training,  according  to  her  mother's  relations — 
the  Helminghams  of  East  Anglia — had  been  thor- 
ough, perhaps,  but  peculiar.  George  Fairfax  had 
taught  his  daughter  much  of  what  he  knew  con- 
cerning the  human  body,  and  nearly  all  that  he 
surmised  concerning  the  human  mind.  The  Helming- 
hams were  too  well-bred  to  indict  George  Fairfax's 
methods,  but  they  told  East  Anglia  that  things  would 
have  been  very  different  if  Dorothy's  mother  had  sur- 
vived Dorothy's  birth. 

Lying  back  in  her  chair,  sensible  of  the  peace  and 
freshness  which  succeed  a  storm,  Dorothy  reflected  for 
the  thousand-and-first  time  that  her  father  would  have 
approved  of  Dick  Gasgoyne  as  a  son-in-law. 

"Wouldn't  he,  Solomon?" 

Solomon,  the  Yorkshire  tyke — so  named  because  he 
was  the  most  intelligent  person  in  Dogdom — assented 
with  enthusiasm.  Solomon  had  not  accompanied  his 
mistress  to  Battersea  Park,  because  he  knew,  none  bet- 


6  HER     SON 

ter,  the  humiliation  of  playing  gooseberry,  but  being, 
as  has  been  said,  supercaninely  intelligent,  he  quite 
understood  that  Dick  Gasgoyne  was  as  necessary  to 
Dorothy's  happiness  as  he  was  himself. 

Had  you  asked  Solomon  for  an  opinion,  he  would 
have  said  that  in  Dorothy  met  and  were  fused  two 
extremes:  the  modern  and  the  primitive  maiden,  an 
admirable  combination  of  complex  and  simple.  The 
Arcadian  type,  too  often  exasperatingly  stupid,  and 
yet  so  delightfully  serene,  had  been  reproduced  with 
a  mentality  essentially  urban.  Nevertheless,  first  and 
last,  she  represented  all  that  wifehood  and  motherhood 
may  include. 

She  herself  was  conscious  of  this.  Indeed,  till  the 
moment  of  his  death  (which  had  come  with  appalling 
suddenness)  Dorothy's  future  as  wife  and  mother  had 
been  a  subject  of  never-failing  interest  between  father 
and  daughter.  George  Fairfax  spoke  of  love  candidly 
and  yet  with  absolute  delicacy  as  an  all-compelling 
force,  which  directed  bright  must  work  for  good.  Of 
the  evil  of  such  a  power  abused,  he  had  intended  to 
speak  also  when  Dorothy  became  older,  but  he  died 
before  time  gave  him  the  opportunity.  He  left  be- 
hind him  a  great  reputation,  but  a  small  fortune. 
Sufficient  to  bring  in  some  five  or  six  hundred  a  year 
to  Dorothy.  He  might  have  saved  ten  times  as  much, 
but  he  had  never  learned  to  say  "  No  "  to  the  pitiful 
appeals  of  poverty  and  pain. 

After  his  death,  she  went  to  live  with  the  Helming- 
hams,  her  mother's  people. 

Sir   Augustus   Helmingham,   M.    P.,   J.   P.,   and   a 


HER     SON  7 

Baronet  of  James  the  First's  creation,  possessed  every- 
thing which  the  gods  can  give,  except  a  sense  of 
humour.  This  was  not  missed  either  in  East  Anglia 
or  in  Portman  Square,  but  it  made  an  enormous 
difference  to  Dorothy.  Ultimately,  it  drove  her  to 
Oakley  Street.  She  could  never  forget  her  uncle's  first 
words  after  her  father's  death,  spoken  in  that  father's 
consulting-room,  beneath  the  very  chamber  where  he 
was  lying  dead.  Sir  Augustus,  let  it  be  said,  had 
come  to  town  in  almost  undignified  haste;  he  sincerely 
wished  to  do  the  really  right  thing;  he  was  grieved; 
he  felt  paternal ;  but  he  made  a  sad  mess  of  it. 

"  My  dear  child,"  Dorothy  was  sobbing  in  his  arms, 
"  I  can  put  myself  in  your  place,  I  know  exactly  how 
you  feel," — Sir  Augustus  had  used  this  serviceable 
phrase  to  mothers  bereaved  of  children,  and  even  to 
children  who  had  lost  beloved  dolls — "  but  you  must 
dry  your  eyes  and  endeavour  to  turn  this  affliction  to 
your  spiritual  profit." 

And  then  Dorothy  had  laughed. 

Sir  Augustus  dismissed  the  laugh  with  the  chari- 
table explanation,  hysteria ;  but  it  rang  shockingly  in 
his  ears ;  it  indicated  want  of  balance.  He  met  the 
emergency  with  practical  common  sense. 

"  I  prescribe  a  glass  of  port  wine  at  once." 

And  again   Dorothy  had  laughed! 

The  next  two  years  were  spent  in  East  Anglia  and 
Portman  Square.  Afterwards,  Dorothy  never  failed 
to  speak  warmly  of  the  kindness  shewn  to  her  by  both 
uncle  and  aunt,  but  she  knew  from  the  first  that  she 
was  a  stranger  within  their  gates:  alien  not  to  their 


8  HER     SON 

affection,  but,  what  is  nearly  as  hard  to  bear,  their 
inherited  customs  and  traditions.  There  was  a  place 
prepared,  a  very  large  and  comfortable  place,  delight- 
fully furnished,  guaranteed  to  suit  the  average  young 
gentlewoman,  but,  unhappily,  a  misfit  for  Dorothy. 

"  We  don't  quite  understand  you,"  murmured  Lady 
Helmingham. 

"  You  make  me  feel  a  beast,"  said  Dorothy  ruefully, 
"  because  I  do  understand  you,  Aunt  Charlotte,  and 
it  doesn't  seem  fair  that  you  shouldn't  understand  me. 
I'm  a  sort  of  Wonderful  Puzzle  Fifteen  to  you,  I 
know." 

"  You  are,  my  dear,"  the  lady  sighed,  "  and  I  sup- 
pose that's  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  fear  it's  just  the  beginning.  Uncle  Augustus 
and  you  must  let  me  dree  my  ain  weird.  I  think  I 
should  like  to  become  a  hospital  nurse." 

"  Dorothy ! " 

"  If  there  were  vivandieres  in  our  Army " 

"  My  child,  pray  don't  joke  about  such  serious  mat- 
ters." 

"  I  am  not  joking,  Aunt  Charlotte.  It  is  your  duty 
to  reflect  what  a  shocking  example  I  am  to  your 
Amy." 

"  Really,  Dorothy " 

"  Really  and  truly.  Amy  understudies  me  already. 
In  fact,  thinking  for  you,  for  Amy,  and  for  myself, 
I  have  summed  up  the  situation  in  one  word — 
budge!" 

"Budge?" 

"  Do  a  bunk,  as  the  boys  put  it." 


HER     SON  9 

"  If  you  would  be  less — er — flippant " 

Dorothy  took  her  aunt's  hand ;  then,  bending  down, 
she  kissed  the  protesting,  querulous,  kindly  face. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  whispered.  "  But  why  shouldn't 
I  paddle  my — I  mean,  don't  you  think  that,  under  all 
the  circumstances,"  unconsciously  there  was  a  very 
capital  imitation  of  Sir  Augustus,  "  it  might  be  wiser 
for  me  to  go?  " 

"  To  go — where?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  a  flat.  Solomon  and  I  would 
be  quite  happy  in  a  flat." 

"  In  a  flat  ?  "  Twenty-five  years  ago  few  spinsters, 
young  or  old,  dared  to  live  in  flats.  Solomon  and 
you?  A  propos,  Dorothy,  I  wish  you  had  given  your 
terrier  a  more  suitable  name.  People  draw  the  most 
absurd  inferences.  Only  yesterday,  dear  Lady  Win- 
terbotham  asked  me  if  Solomon  was  a  connection  of 
ours." 

"  I  hope  you  said  he  was  your  darling  nephew." 

"  I  had  to  explain.  As  for  your  living  alone  in  a 
flat " 

"  I  am  never  alone  with  Solomon." 

"  Your  uncle  would  say — impossible!  " 

"  Surely  not  that !  " 

"  You,  a  mere  chit  of  a  girl,  not  yet  twenty,  with 
a  flat  of  your  own " 

"In,  not  with.  I  object  to  the  *  with,'  although 
originally  you  suggested  I  should." 

"  I  suggested — what?  " 

"  That  I  should  marry  and  live  with  a  flat." 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  Lord  Ipswich?  " 


10  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Certainly.  Everybody  called  him  '  It '  at  Eton  and 
Oxford.  Poor  '  It.'  Before  he  honoured  me  with  his 
attentions,  all  of  you  spoke  of  him  as  a  flat." 

"  He  is  very  much  in  love  with  you,  and  has  been 
admirably  brought  up.  He  would  never  give  a  wife 

a  moment's  uneasiness.  And  some  young  men " 

Aunt  Charlotte  resolutely  shut  her  lips,  and  glanced 
down  her  aristocratic  nose. 

"  As  for  Teddy  Ipswich,"  said  Dorothy,  with 
slightly  heightened  colour,  "  I  will  use  uncle's  and  your 
word — impossible !  " 

No  more  was  said  upon  this  occasion,  but  the  word 
"  budge "  became  an  obsession  to  Dorothy.  Other 
men  were  charmed  by  her  pleasant  looks  and  intelli- 
gence, but,  in  the  end,  each  and  all  were  condemned 
as  impossible.  Then  Dick  Gasgoyne  appeared. 

Dick — who  had  just  returned  from  the  Balkans — 
lived  in  Grub  Street  upon  the  money  which  he  could 
persuade  appreciative  editors  to  give  in  exchange  for 
his  "  stuff."  He  appeared  in  Portman  Square  with 
proper  credentials.  Upon  a  large  white  card,  Lady 
Helmingham  informed  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne  that  she 
was  "  At  Home  "  the  25th  of  May.  In  a  corner  of 
the  card  was  the  word  "  Dancing."  The  card  was 
intended  for  Richard  Gasgoyne  of  the  Coldstream; 
and  it  was  Lady  Helmingham's  misfortune,  not  her 
fault,  that  the  pasteboard  was  misdirected  (by  a 
secretary  paid  to  look  out  names  and  addresses  in  a 
Directory)  to  a  club  instead  of  Chelsea  Barracks. 

Richard  Gasgoyne  the  Wrong  accepted  Richard  Gas- 


HER     SON  11 

goyne  the  Right's  invitation,  which  is,  after  all,  the 
marrow  of  the  matter. 

He  came  to  Portman  Square  in  a  'bus,  believing  him- 
self to  be  an  honoured  guest,  and  he  was  received  as 
such,  for  Lady  Helmingham  had  never  met  the  Cold- 
streamer.  As  Dick  mounted  the  fine  flight  of  stairs, 
at  the  head  of  which  stood  his  bediamonded  hostess, 
he  challenged  attention  by  reason  of  his  face  and 
stature.  Lady  Helmingham  blinked  when  his  name  fell 
loudly  upon  her  ear.  She  has  confessed  that  she  was 
dazzled.  And  at  once  she  presented  Apollo  to  her 
niece,  Dorothy  Fairfax.  Dick  looked  keenly  at  Doro- 
thy and  asked  for  a  dance.  Before  that  dance — and 
it  happened  to  be  the  second — was  over,  Dorothy  had 
been  put  into  possession  of  the  facts.  She  had  heard 
of  the  Coldstreamer,  and  this  was  not  he.  Dick,  who 
had  Caesarean  attributes,  attacked  boldly.  He  was 
enchanted  with  Dorothy,  and  this  splendid  entertain- 
ment had  the  additional  attraction  of  an  adventure. 
When  Lady  Helmingham  had  welcomed  him  so  effu- 
sively with  a  flying  allusion  to  his  dear  mother,  or  dear 
aunt,  Dick  grasped  the  situation. 

"  I'm  here  under  false  pretences,"  he  told  Dorothy. 

"  You  are,"  she  admitted,  rather  gaspingly,  for  they 
had  danced  the  valse  through  without  stopping.  "  I 
was  told  you  were  a  shocking  performer.  I  suppose 
the  standard  is  high  in  the  Guards." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  Guards,"  said  Dick. 

"  Surely  you  are  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne." 

"  I  am." 


12  HER     SON 

«  Then ?  " 

"  It  will  take  some  time  to  tell." 

"  Hardly  anybody  has  come  yet.     Tell  it." 

Dick  told  it,  and  the  story  lost  nothing  in  the  telling, 
for  already  he  was  a  practised  teller  of  tales.  Like 
a  true  artist,  he  made  the  interest  of  his  tale  cumu- 
lative, and,  when  he  finished,  Dorothy  was  athirst  for 
more. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Nearly  all ;  naturally  I  have  left  out  some." 

Afterwards  the  careless  words  came  back  to  Doro^1 
thy.  He  had  left  out  "  some."  What  she  knew,  how- 
ever, must  be  made  known  to  the  reader.  Dick  was 
the  son  of  a  country  parson,  who  had  pinched  himself 
sorely  to  send  his  boy  to  Winchester  and  Oxford.  The 
Gasgoyne  in  the  Coldstream  appeared  to  be  a  second 
cousin. 

"  I've  not  met  him,"  said  Dick,  with  engaging  can- 
dour. "  They  tell  me  he's  a  bit  of  an  ass.  It's  a  fact 
that  I've  cut  my  swell  relations." 

"  That  is  better  than  their  cutting  you,"  said 
Dorothy. 

"  Exactly."  He  was  delighted  with  her  reply.  "  You 
see  I  wasn't  going  to  sponge  on  them,  and  when  my 
father  died  I  found  myself  without  a  rap.  I  had  to 
leave  Oxford,  and  earn  my  bread-and-butter." 

"  I  am  sure  you  earned  it." 

"  As  to  that — well,  I'm  not  one  to  count  *  the  billows 
past,'  but  I  have  dined  and  supped  off  a  ha'penny  bun : 
very  satisfying,  buns.  Now,  I'm  all  right." 

Details  were  then  forthcoming  about  his  work:  the 


HER     SON  13 

work  of  a  journalist.  The  minutes  flew  while  Dick 
talked  and  Dorothy  listened.  He  asked  for  and  was 
accorded  another  dance.  Dorothy  introduced  him  to 
half  a  dozen  girls.  You  may  be  sure  that  the  young 
fellow  enjoyed  himself  vastly  well,  but  he  waited  with 
impatience  for  his  second  dance  with  Dorothy.  Mean- 
time, Lady  Helmingham  had  discovered  that  a  mistake 
had  been  made. 

"  It  seems,"  she  whispered  to  her  niece,  "  that  this 
very  charming-looking  young  man  is  not  in  the  Cold- 
stream." 

"  He  is  a  cousin,"  Dorothy  replied.  "  The  card 
went  to  the  wrong  address." 

"  A  cousin — ah !  It  doesn't  matter.  He  seems  to 
be  enjoying  himself,  my  dear." 

"  He  is  the  sort  of  man  who  can  get  satisfaction  out 
of  ha'penny  buns,"  Dorothy  murmured.  The  allusion 
was  wasted  upon  the  good  aunt,  who  had  other  matters 
to  attend  to.  Dorothy  was  whisked  away  by  an  admir- 
able dancer,  but  he  valsed  less  smoothly  than  Richard 
Gasgoyne. 

When  the  second  dance  was  over,  the  mischief  had 
been  done.  The  pair  sat  out  the  interval  and  the 
following  lancers.  Dorothy  told  her  story.  When 
Dick  learned  that  she  was  her  father's  daughter,  his 
face  beamed. 

"  You  must  be  the  right  sort,"  he  muttered. 

"  Thanks." 

"  But  it's  rather  queer  that  you  should  be  Lady 
Helmingham's  niece." 

"  I'm  sure  she  thinks  so,"  laughed  Dorothy. 


14  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  You  have  ambitions  other  than "  he  indicated 

the  sparkling  crowd. 

"Ambitions?   Yes." 

"  If  one  might  venture  to  ask " 

"  But  of  course  you  may  ask — .  It  is  so  unin- 
telligent not  to  ask.  I've  asked  you  a  score  of  ques- 
tions, haven't  I?  Well,  my  great  ambition  at  present 
is  to  live  in  a  flat." 

"Alone?" 

"  With  Solomon." 

"  Solomon — -?  " 

"  My  terrier." 

"  Oh,  your  terrier."  Dick  laughed.  "  I  should  like 
to  meet  Solomon." 

"  That  goes  without  saying.  I'll  ask  him  if  he  will 
let  me  present  you." 

"When?" 

His  face  grew  very  serious ;  her  eyes  fell  before  his. 

"  And  where?  " 

"  This  is  very  flattering  to — Solomon." 

"  I  am  dying  to  have  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance. 
Time  and  place,  please?  " 

She  considered,  puckering  up  her  brows.  Dick 
adumbrated,  so  to  speak,  future  greatness  by  the  bold- 
ness and  ability  with  which  he  confronted  the  first 
serious  obstacle. 

"  I  might  drop  in  to  lunch,"  he  suggested. 

"  To  lunch?  "  Dorothy  put  up  her  fan  to  conceal 
an  amazed  smile. 

"Why  not?  I'm  sure  Lady  Helmingham  would  rise 
to  the  occasion,  if " 


HER     SON  15 

«  jf p  » 

"  If  I  threw  an  alluring  fly." 

She  eyed  him  with  a  slightly  different  expression.  He 
was  presenting  the  enterprising  journalist,  and  Doro- 
thy told  herself  that  he  had  chosen  the  right  profes- 
sion. She  realised,  with  a  curious  conviction,  that  he 
was  certain  to  succeed.  At  any  rate,  she  shewed  her- 
self willing  to  indicate  the  right  kind  of  fly. 

"  Lady  Helmingham  is  very  interested  in  bazaars. 
She  will  have  an  Art  Stall  at  the  Albert  Hall  next 
week.  If  you  are  asked  to  lunch,  I  think  I  can  answer 
for  Solomon.  He  has  a  most  unapostolic  intolerance 
of  fools,  but  he  always  recognises  and  welcomes 
ability." 

Dick  got  his  invitation  to  luncheon.  When  the 
crowds  had  thinned  after  supper,  the  young  man  ap- 
proached his  hostess,  who  held  out  her  hand,  thinking 
that  he  wished  to  say  "  Good-night." 

"  I'm  not  going  on  to  the  Duchess's,"  said  Dick, 
genially,  "  partly  because  I've  not  been  asked  and 
partly  because  this  is  much  too  charming  to  leave.  I 
came  up  to  say  that  when  you  aimed  at  a  falcon  and 
hit  a  crow,  it  was  very  lucky  for  the  crow." 

"  If  you  have  had  a  pleasant  evening " 

"  I  have,  I  have.  By  the  way,  I  am  told  that  you 
are  taking  a  stall  at  the  Bazaar  to  be  held  in  the 
Albert  Hall.  You  mustn't  think  that  I'm  in  a  hurry 
to  discharge  my  obligations,  but  as  I  understand  that 
yours  is  an  Art  stall,  perhaps  you  would  let  me  send 
you  a  couple  of  water-colour  drawings." 

"  This  is  very  nice  of  you,  Mr.  Gasgoyne." 


16  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  The  only  thing,"  his  tone  became  deprecating, 
"  is — are  they  good  enough?  Perhaps  you  would 
let  me  bring  them  here  to  show  to  you.  And  I  know 
several  artists ;  in  so  good  a  cause  I  think  I  might 
persuade  one  or  two  to  contribute." 

"  If  you  would — my  stall,  I  fear,  will  be  rather  bare. 
You  are  very  kind." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  really  interested  in "  he  broke 

off  suddenly,  and  added  in  a  different  tone:  "  Shall  I 
bring  you  what  I  can  find  next  Sunday  afternoon?  " 

"  If  you  have  no  better  engagement,  won't  you  come 
to  luncheon?  My  niece  says  you  were  in  Plevna?  " 

He  hesitated,  as  if  he  were  mentally  glancing  at  an 
engagement  book.  In  reality  he  was  reflecting,  not 
without  a  qualm,  how  easily  his  guileless  fish  had  been 
hooked. 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  he  replied. 

Upon  the  following  Sunday  Dick  was  introduced  to 
Solomon.  Dorothy  had  told  herself  that  Solomon's 
instinct  was  infallible.  If  he  liked  Apollo  her  own 
judgment  would  be  fortified.  If,  as  so  often  happened, 
Solomon  manifested  indifference  or  antipathy  to  the 
stranger,  why  then  Dorothy's  merely  feminine  predilec- 
tion would  need  amendment  and  modification.  Really, 
it  was  an  ordeal  for  Gasgoyne,  because  Solomon,  as 
has  been  said,  was  so  very  particular,  so  hypercritical. 
But  the  interview  began  and  ended  triumphantly.  Gas- 
goyne was  acclaimed  unmistakably  as  the  right  sort. 

Within  a  week  Dick  and  Dorothy  were  engaged. 
The  word  "  Cassarean  "  (already  used)  describes  Dick's 


H  E  R     S  O  N  17 

methods  so  adequately  that  we  are  justified  in  skipping 
details.  The  young  fellow  was  born  under  some  happy 
conjunction  of  Venus  and  Mars.  He  carried  high 
places  by  storm,  although  like  the  illustrious  Julius, 
he  never  disregarded  the  necessity  of  preparation.  But 
when  he  moved,  he  moved  swiftly;  when  he  struck, 
he  struck  hard. 

He  had  the  audacity  to  call  upon  Sir  Augustus  and 
submit,  without  any  grovelling,  his  claims  to  be  re- 
ceived in  East  Anglia  and  Portman  Square  as  a  nephew- 
in-law!  Sir  Augustus  listened  courteously  and  asked 
for  information  concerning  settlements:  adding  civ- 
illy— "  Perhaps,  Mr.  Gasgoyne,  you  would  prefer  to 
give  me  the  names  of  your  solicitors.  Mine  are  Silk- 
stone  and  Limpet,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields." 

"  I,"  said  Dick,  "  am  my  own  solicitor.  As  for 
settlements,  Sir  Augustus,  I  propose  to  settle  on  your 
niece  everything  I  have." 

Half  a  dozen  questions  revealed  the  fact  that  "  every- 
thing "  stood  for  a  stout,  well-muscled  body  and  an 
active,  sanguine  mind. 

"  I  am  earning  about  four  hundred  a  year,"  said 
Dick ;  "  and  my  income  is  steadily  increasing.  With 
what  Miss  Fairfax  has  we  shall  do  very  well,  very  well 
indeed." 

"  I  can  consent  to  no  engagement  between  yourself 
and  my  niece,"  replied  Sir  Augustus  frigidly. 

Soon  after  Dick  withdrew.  Let  it  be  added  that  he 
accepted  defeat  with  a  gallant  smile,  not  without  its 
effect  on  the  baronet.  When  the  door  of  the  library 
closed,  Sir  Augustus — who  had  hunted  in  his  youth 


18  HER     SON 

• — muttered  to  himself :  "  The  fellow  is  a  thruster." 
Then  he  rang  the  bell,  and  said  to  the  butler  that  he 
wished  to  have  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  Miss 
Fairfax. 

What  followed  was  described  by  Dorothy  in  one 
word :  "  Ructions." 

The  young  lady  refused  to  give  up  her  lover;  Sir 
Augustus  and  Lady  Helmingham  instructed  the  serv- 
ants that  they  were  "  not  at  home "  to  Mr.  Richard 
Gasgoyne;  and  the  atmosphere  in  the  big  town  house 
became  very  chilly.  For  the  baronet  was  one  of  those 
benefactors  who  undo  thoughtful  and  kind  actions  with 
thoughtless  and  unkind  words.  With  how  steadier 
and  purer  a  flame  the  torch  of  gratitude  would  burn 
were  it  not  so  often  blown  upon  by  gusty  and  gaseous 
verbosity  on  the  part  of  those  who  have  lighted  it. 
Sir  Augustus  would  send  a  poor  kinsman  a  handsome 
cheque,  or  devote  much  time  to  secure  him  a  billet, 
but  having  done  these  good  deeds  he  would  assume 
henceforward  the  right  to  dictate  to,  to  sneer  at,  and 
to  play  the  deuce  generally  with  his  beneficiary.  In- 
deed, it  could  be  said  of  him  that  the  persons  who 
owed  him  most  were  the  ones  who  liked  him  least. 

In  July-  Dorothy  took  possession  of  a  wee  house 
in  Oakley  Street,  and  the  announcement  of  her  en- 
gagement and  forthcoming  marriage  appeared  in  the 
Morning  Post.  Dorothy  was  now  of  age,  and  her 
own  mistress,  to  use  a  ridiculously  false  phrase.  She 
had  not  many  friends,  caring  little  for  smart  society, 
but  more  than  one  offered  her  sanctuary,  entreated 
her,  indeed,  to  place  herself  and  her  romantic  love 


H  E  R     S  O  N  19 

affairs  in  discreet  hands.  Moira  Curragh,  an  Irish 
countess,  wrote: 

"  Dear  Doll :  An  Englishman's  house  may  be  his 
castle  (or  his  dungeon),  but  an  Irishwoman's  home  is 
a  hotel  for  her  friends.  Come  to  me  at  once,  my 
Juliet." 

But  Dorothy  took  her  own  line  amid  a  chorus  of 
protestation  from  everybody  except  Dick.  A  sub-edi- 
torship of  a  rising  daily  newspaper  had  been  promised 
to  him.  The  wedding  day  had  been  named.  After 
a  brief  honeymoon  the  pair  would  return  to  Oakley 
Street. 

Having  passed  the  Rubicon,  Dorothy  gave  herself 
up  to  being  rapturously  happy.  Her  own  testi- 
mony is  ample  on  this  point.  She  invented  a  word 
to  express  her  condition.  "  I  walladge,"  she  wrote  to 
Lady  Curragh,  whose  home  was  a  hotel  for  her  friends. 
"  Walladge,"  she  pointed  out,  was  a  combination  of 
"  wallow "  and  "  stodge."  She  had  stuffed  herself 
with  happiness,  and  in  what  she  could  not  consume 
she  wallowed.  Happiness  is  so  essentially  abstract 
that  any  concrete  presentment  of  it  must  be  more  or 
less  inaccurate  and  misleading.  But  it  is  necessary 
to  give  an  impression  at  least  of  what  took  place  dur- 
ing this  memorable  month  of  July.  During  the  day 
Dorothy  ransacked  curiosity  shops  in  search  of  furni- 
ture suitable  to  what  Dick  called  the  Doll's  House.  The 
massive  mahogany  early  Victorian  chairs  and  tables  and 
sideboards  belonging  to  George  Fairfax  had  been  sold, 
but  his  coloured  prints  and  engravings,  his  water- 
colour  drawings,  his  books  and  china  had  remained 


20  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Dorothy's  most  precious  possessions.  It  was  not  easy 
to  find  things  good  enough  to  form  a  background  to 
these,  but  what  a  delightful  quest !  Half  of  each  after- 
noon was  spent  with  Dick,  generally  upon  the  river. 
He  had  his  work,  and  he  was  working  hard,  but  he 
came  to  Dorothy  each  day  looking  as  fit  and  fresh 
as  she  did.  If  she  "  walladged  "  so  did  he.  Solomon's 
nose,  it  is  true,  was  out  of  joint,  but  he  carried  a  stiff 
tail,  and  his  knee  action  was  universally  admired. 
After  all  he  had  his  mornings  with  Dorothy,  and  not 
an  article  in  the  Doll's  House  was  bought  unless  it  were 
highly  commended  by  this  canine  connoisseur. 

When  the  sun  shone  radiantly,  when,  alone  in  Dick's 
punt,  in  some  shady  backwater  of  the  Thames,  the 
lovers  listened  to  the  hum  of  the  bees  amongst  the 
willows,  and  the  soft  lapping  of  the  stream  as  it  glided 
by,  Dorothy  wondered  how  long  the  idyll  would  last. 
It  seemed  amazing  that  Dick  should  be  so  exactly  right, 
so  satisfying,  and  so  different  from  other  men  whom 
she  had  known.  One  day,  she  said  softly : 

"  Dick,  you  make  love  so  nicely  that  one  is  driven 
to  the  conclusion  that  you've  had  a  lot  of  practice." 

"  I  have,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course,"  he  hastened  to 
add,  "  it  was  make-believe,  not  the  real  thing,  but  I 
learned  a  wrinkle  or  two." 

"  And  you  got  a  wrinkle  or  two,"  said  Dorothy, 
eyeing  certain  faint  lines  about  his  eyes  and  forehead. 
Her  glance,  so  steady,  so  passionate  and  so  pure, 
brought  the  blood  to  his  cheeks.  Shamefacedly,  he 
opened  his  lips  to  speak,  and  then,  as  suddenly,  closed 
them. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  21 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  ?  "  she  whispered, 
touching  his  hair  with  her  fingers.  They  were  sitting 
side  by  side  at  the  bottom  of  a  red-cushioned  punt. 
Dick  had  been  reading  aloud  his  latest — and  of  course 
his  best — short  story.  He  threw  the  MS.  to  the  end 
of  the  punt,  and  captured  her  straying  fingers,  holding 
them  tightly  in  his. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  replied  gravely,  "  you  have  been 
very  generous.  I  feel  as  if  no  man  ever  knew  the 
girl  he  loved  quite  so  well  as  I  know  you.  My  God! 
what  an  education  this  last  month  has  been  to  me ! " 

"  And  to  me,"  she  echoed. 

"  But  I,"  his  voice  trembled,  "  have  not  been  so 
generous.  There  are  bits,  ugly  bits,  in  my  life  which 
I  may  shew  to  you  some  day,  but  not  now." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"  I  have  had  a  tough  time  of  it,  dear,"  he  felt  the 
sympathetic  pressure  of  her  hand  in  his,  "  and  I  have 
come  in  contact  with  pitch;  one  can't  say  more  to 
such  a  girl  as  you,  but  it  is  enough,  isn't  it?  You 
understand?  You  are  not  a  prude.  And  when  you 
touched  me  that  first  evening,  I  became  clean.  You 
must  believe  that." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  steadily.     "  I  believe  that." 

He  raised  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  but  he  did  not  kiss 
her  lips.  Afterwards  she  remembered  this,  when  speech 
was  forced  upon  both  of  them. 

Upon  the  day  when  Dorothy  was  caught  in  the 
storm  upon  Battersea  Bridge,  we  left  her,  it  will  be 
remembered,  in  an  arm  chair  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet 


22  HER     SON 

reminiscence.  Nearly  a  fortnight  had  passed  since 
that  particular  talk  between  Dick  and  herself  in  which 
so  much  vital  to  both  of  them  had  been  left  unsaid. 
Upon  these  things  left  unsaid  Dorothy  had  pon- 
dered not  a  little.  She  hoped  and  believed  that  Dick's 
youth  differed  from  the  youth  of  some  men  she  had 
met.  But  in  any  case — and  here,  of  course,  she  was 
predicting  against  the  unknowable — in  any  case  he 
loved  her  and  she  loved  him,  and  they  were  young 
and  strong,  and  able  to  surmount  obstacles.  The 
present  was  theirs  and  the  future.  Was  it  not  fatu- 
ous to  speculate  at  haphazard  concerning  the  past? 
She  put  the  question  to  Solomon,  who  was  lying  upon 
the  carpet  in  front  of  her,  staring  at  her  with  his 
keen  shrewd  eyes. 

"  You  have  never  cried  over  spilt  milk,  Solomon." 

Solomon  got  up,  stretched  himself,  yawned — his 
manners  were  not  always  those  of  Louis  XIV. — and 
said  "  Wouf-f-f ,"  very  contemptuously. 

"  If  I  broke  the  Ten  Commandments  over  and  over 
again,  you  would  love  me  just  as  much,  wouldn't  you?  " 

Solomon  wagged  his  tail  and  winked.  He  was  not 
a  good  tyke,  and  never  pretended  to  be.  Had  he  not 
tried  to  murder  Amy  Helmingham's  pug,  because 
Dorothy  had  taken  that  spoiled  darling  for  a  walk? 
Was  he  not  a  confirmed  poacher,  a  harrier  of  respect- 
able cats,  a  thief  even? 

"  But  spilt  milk  leaves  a  horrid  stain,  Solomon. 
You  know  it  does." 

Solomon  deliberately  turned  his  back,  lay  down,  and 
put  his  nose  between  his  paws.  He  was  pretending 


HER     SON  23 

to  go  to  sleep,  because  this  sort  of  conversation  bored 
him. 

Dorothy  felt  herself  to  be  rebuked,  but  Dick's  past 
seemed  to  beckon  to  her  out  of  Dick's  eyes.  She  stared 
at  his  photograph  which  stood  upon  the  mantelpiece. 
Once  she  had  vowed  that  she  would  never  marry  a 
dark  man.  Gasgoyne  was.  very  dark.  He  had  that 
white  clear  skin  so  seldom  seen  in  England,  and  black 
hair,  brows,  and  lashes.  Had  his  eyes  been  dark  he 
would,  unquestionably,  have  looked  foreign,  too  Ital- 
ian, but  his  eyes  were  a  Saxon  blue,  and  his  features 
were  also  Saxon,  firmly  moulded  and  square. 

Afterwards,  she  sometimes  wondered  whether  Gas- 
goyne's  past  would  have  come  to  her  as  it  did,  had 
she  not,  so  to  speak,  put  herself  into  rapport  with  it 
by  constant  thought  concerning  it.  For  she  had  come 
to  this  conclusion :  she  wished  to  know.  We  are  going 
a  little  too  fast,  but  it  is,  perhaps,  expedient  to  admit 
now  that  without  this  previous  preparation  of  the  soil, 
the  seed  might  never  have  taken  root.  Falling  upon 
a  hard  smooth  surface  of  innocence  or  ignorance  or 
indifference,  a  gust  of  natural  indignation  would  have 
blown  it  away. 

As  Dorothy  stared  at  the  portrait  her  maid  entered. 
Susan  Judkins  had  been  Dorothy's  nurse.  In  Oakley 
Street  she  acted  as  maid  and  parlour-maid. 

"Well,  Susan?" 

"  A  young  person  to  see  you,  Miss  Dorothy." 

"  From  the  dressmaker  ? "  Young  persons  from 
dressmakers  and  milliners  were  frequent  visitors  at  the 
Doll's  House  during  this  month  of  July. 


24  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Susan — everybody  else  called  her  Mrs.  Judklns — 
shut  the  door  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and,  approaching 
close  to  Dorothy,  lowered  her  head  and  voice. 

"  She  don't  look  as  if  she  came  from  any  respectable 
place.  Her  name  is — Miss  Crystal  Wride." 

"  I  wonder  what  she  wants.    Is  she  young?  " 

"  Quite  old  enough  to  know  better,  I  should  say." 

"Pretty?" 

Susan  Judkins  sniffed,  but  she  was  honest. 

"  Men  would  call  her  that,"  she  admitted. 

"  Shew  her  in." 

Susan  sniffed  again,  but  obeyed,  knowing  that  it 
was  useless  to  combat  her  mistress's  whims.  Miss  Crys- 
tal Wride  entered,  staring  defiantly  first  at  Susan,  and 
then  at  Dorothy.  With  her  came  an  odour  of  cheap 
scent  and  damp  clothes. 

At  the  same  moment  Solomon,  bristling  with  rage, 
began  to  growl.  Then,  as  the  girl  advanced,  he  flew 
straight  at  her,  and  laid  hold  of  her  skirt.  It  was 
quite  plain  that  he  did  not  think  this  young  woman  a 
suitable  person  to  visit  his  beloved  mistress. 

"  Let  go,  you  little  devil!  " 

"  Solomon !  How  dare  you !  Lie  down  at  once,  do 
you  hear?  " 

Solomon  obeyed,  still  growling.  But,  during  the  in- 
terview that  followed,  his  eyes  never  left  Miss  Wride's 
face. 

"  Has  he  torn  your  dress  ?  "  Dorothy  asked. 

«  No." 

"  I  am  so  very  sorry.  Won't  you  sit  down  and  tell 
me  what  I  can  do  for  you.  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  25 

"  I'll  stand,  thank  you." 

Susan  Judkins  withdrew,  very  reluctantly.  We  say 
more  for  her  character  than  could  be  condensed  into  a 
couple  of  pages,  when  we  add  that  she  did  not  tarry 
a  moment  outside  the  door,  but  hurried  at  once  to  her 
own  room. 

Miss  Wride  pulled  a  frayed  pocket-book  out  of  a 
pocket  and  took  from  it  a  newspaper  clipping:  the 
announcement,  in  fact,  of  Dorothy's  approaching 
marriage. 

"  This  is  true,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes." 

At  this  moment  Dorothy  divined  that  Gasgoyne's 
past  had  come  in  person  to  satisfy  her  curiosity.  She 
had  wished  to  know,  and  the  Gods  had  decreed  that 
she  should  know.  Her  face  changed  subtly  as  she 
took  note  of  the  stranger,  her  hat,  much  bedraggled, 
her  soiled  grey  kid  gloves,  her  boots. 

"  I  ain't  up  to  much,  am  I  ?  "  Crystal  Wride  asked, 
with  a  sudden  derisive  smile,  "  but  I  was  good  enough 
for  him — till  he  met  you." 

She  pointed  at  Gasgoyne's  photograph,  enthroned 
securely  in  the  place  of  honour  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"  You  had  better  sit  down,"  faltered  Dorothy. 

"  I  won't  sit  down,"  the  girl  returned  savagely. 

Certainly  she  was  more  than  pretty.  Indeed  beauti- 
ful, with  a  lithe  grace  which  in  repose — and  she  was 
standing  perfectly  still — suggested  a  Tanagra  stat- 
uette. The  resemblance  was  the  more  striking  because 
her  wet  skirt  clung  closely  to  her  figure,  accentuating 
the  admirable  lines  of  it. 


26  H  E  R     S  0  N 

Dorothy  may  have  thought  of  these  things  after- 
wards, for  the  moment  she  was  sensible  of  only  one 
overmastering  emotion:  that  of  fear.  The  animal  in 
this  girl  was  about  to  spring  upon  her,  and  she  was 
defenceless.  The  animal  which  could  never  have  glided 
by  Lady  Helmingham's  powdered  footmen.  An  insane 
desire  seized  her  to  scream,  to  rush  from  the  room,  to 
hide  herself.  But  the  animal  could  move  faster,  speak 
louder,  than  she. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here?  " 

"  To  look  at  you." 

At  the  insolence  of  the  words  and  the  glance  which 
accompanied  them  Dorothy  regained  her  self-control, 
and  with  it  her  keenness  of  perception  and  apprehen- 
sion. In  a  different  voice  she  said  quietly : 

"  Then,  please  look  at  me,  and  go." 

"  Aren't  you  frightened  ?  I'm  stronger  than  you.  I 
could  scratch  your  eyes  out." 

She  came  nearer,  her  fingers  curving,  her  magnificent 
eyes  flashing.  Dorothy  rose,  slightly  trembling.  It 
was  her  first  experience  of  life  as  it  is  lived  in  wild 
places,  by  wild  people.  Instinctively  she  realised  this, 
and  faced  the  situation. 

"Who  are  you?  "  she  asked  decisively. 

It  is  said  that  a  very  simple  question  will  serve  to 
divert  the  attention  of  a  madman.  The  girl  menacing 
Dorothy  with  eyes  and  gestures  was  not  mad,  but 
she  stood  close  to  madness,  upon  the  crumbling  edge 
of  it. 

*'  I  sing  and  I  dance  and  I  act  at  the  Levity 
Theatre." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  27 

Dorothy  filled  in  details,  swiftly.  Then,  quite  sud- 
denly, for  the  words  seemed  to  burst  from  her  without 
volition  on  her  part,  she  whispered  with  unmistakable 
sincerity : 

"  Oh !  what  misery  you  have  suffered." 

The  sympathy  in  her  voice  pierced  a  crust  of  rage, 
jealousy,  and  despair. 

"  Don't ! "  the  girl  exclaimed  huskily,  putting  up 
her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  off  the  sympathy  and  sorrow. 
Suddenly,  she  collapsed,  and,  falling  back  on  the  chair 
on  which  she  had  been  asked  to  sit  not  a  minute  before, 
began  to  sob,  with  a  violence  that  appalled  Dorothy, 
who  knew  not  what  to  do  or  say  in  an  emergency  so 
poignant  and  unexpected,  conscious  herself  of  misery 
impending  above  her  own  head,  feeling,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  that  she  was  whirling  far  from  familiar 
beacons,  at  the  mercy  of  tremendous  and  inexorable 
forces. 

Presently  the  sobs  became  less  violent,  dwindling 
away  into  moans.  Dorothy  divined  that  the  passion 
which  might  have  left  hideous  marks  upon  her  own 
face  had  spent  itself.  She  touched  a  nerveless  hand : 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  everything " 

The  girl  looked  up  trembling.  Then,  in  her  hoarse, 
broken  voice,  she  muttered  defiantly: 

"  Suppose  I  told  you  I  came  here  meaning  to  hurt 
you." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dorothy. 

"But  I  did— there!" 

"What  good  would  that  do?" 

"  It  would  hurt — him.     And — and  make  him  feel,  as 


28  H  E  R     S  0  N 

I  feel  as — as "  Her  eyes  dropped  wearily.  "  Oh, 

it  doesn't  matter  now,  does  it? "  She  attempted  a 
laugh  that  brought  tears  to  Dorothy's  eyes.  "  Now, 
I've  not  got  much  more  strength  than  a  worm.  You'd 
get  the  best  of  it.  See !  "  She  held  out  her  hand 
which  trembled;  the  colour  ebbed  from  her  cheeks. 

"  One  moment,"  said  Dorothy.  "  Don't  let  your- 
self go!" 

She  hurried  from  the  room,  welcoming  action,  move- 
ment, anything  that  would  banish  the  curious  paraly- 
sis of  mind  which  seemed  to  be  assailing  her.  When 
she  returned  with  sal  volatile  and  eau  de  Cologne,  after 
she  had  administered  them,  as  minute  by  minute 
strength  came  back  to  her  visitor,  so  also  strength  re- 
turned to  Dorothy's  mind.  She  saw  the  issues  involved, 
and  faced  them  valiantly,  putting  to  rout  compromise 
and  weakness. 

While  Crystal  Wride  lay  half-fainting  before  her, 
expediency  had  whispered :  "  Take  advantage  of  her 
weakness,  patch  her  up,  pack  her  into  a  cab,  drop  her 
now  and  for  ever  out  of  your  life ! " 

Instead,  she  took  the  poor  passion-torn  creature 
back  to  her  lodgings,  supporting  her  tenderly. 


CHAPTER  II 

DOROTHY'S  first  impression  of  these  lodgings  remained 
a  vivid  and  indelible  brand  upon  the  memory.  There 
were  two  rooms,  leading  one  from  the  other,  and  each 
was  furnished,  as  the  landlady  put  it,  genteelly:  a 
fact  which  increased  rather  than  diminished  the  effect 
they  produced  upon  Dorothy.  For  extreme  misery, 
such  as  may  be  found  in  slums,  for  instance,  has  to 
the  thinking  mind  an  awful  dignity,  a  grim  character 
which  appals  but  chastens  the  beholder.  And  even 
to  the  unintelligent  the  realism  of  the  slum  is  unmis- 
takable. We  have  reached  the  depths  and  we  know  it. 
From  them  we  can  look  up,  we  cannot  look  down.  If 
any  change  is  possible,  that  change  must  be  for  the 
better.  But  in  such  rooms  as  Dorothy  now  found 
herself,  everything,  like  the  tenants,  lacked  character, 
had  had  character  once,  and  "had  lost  it  irretrievably. 
Carpet,  curtains,  chairs,  wardrobe,  and  bed  were,  so 
to  speak,  declasses:  pitiable  to  contemplate,  the'  more 
so  because  they  were  carefully  arranged  with  a  smirk- 
ing, forlorn,  pathetic  attempt  to  appear  better  than 
they  were.  An  armchair,  obviously  in  an  inconvenient 
position,  had  been  placed  where  it  stood  to  hide 
an  inkstain  upon  the  carpet.  A  small  crack  in  the 
dull  mirror  over  the  chimneypiece  was  half  hidden 
by  a  basket  of  wax  flowers  under  a  glass  case.  The 

29 


30  H  E  R     S  O  N 

curtains  were  looped  back  fantastically  to  conceal  the 
faded  folds  in  them.  Japanese  fans  covered  marks 
upon  the  wall  paper.  Garish  bits  of  cheap  lace  and 
riband  masked  broken  springs  and  bulging  horsehair. 
Nothing  matched.  Every  stick  had  been  picked  up 
here  and  there  at  sales.  One  horsehair  chair  had  mas- 
sive mahogany  legs  and  a  noble  width  of  seat.  An 
alderman  might — and  possibly  had — sat  in  it.  The 
wardrobe,  too,  bought  for  a  song  because  both  panels 
of  the  door  were  cracked,  had  been  in  its  day  a  fine 
piece  of  furniture.  Brocades  of  exquisite  texture  might 
have  hung  in  it;  filmy  laces  and  cambrics  might  have 
lain  upon  its  once  lavender-scented  shelves.  A  mar- 
ble-topped table  displayed  an  ancient  music  box,  a 
theatrical  paper,  and  some  faded  daguerreotypes.  In 
the  centre  of  the  mantelpiece,  standing  upon  a  Berlin 
wool  mat,  was  a  china  clock  of  biscuit  Sevres,  the  dial 
encircled  by  nymphs  and  attendant  amorini,  a  really 
charming  bit,  but  chipped  and  broken  beyond  repair- 
ing. It  was  certain  that  the  clock,  which  had  recorded 
so  many  enchanting  hours  in  other  places,  refused  posi- 
tively to  record  anything  save  mute  despair  in  Vauxhall 
Bridge  Road.  But  beyond  this  dreary  atmosphere  of 
what  had  been,  was  the  more  terrible  certainty  of  fur- 
ther abasement.  Any  change  must  be  for  the  worse. 
Dorothy  saw  with  absolute  clarity  of  vision  what  rags 
would  hang  in  the  wardrobe,  what  men  and  women 
might  sit  in  the  aldermanic  chair ! 

Once  at  home,  however,  Crystal  recovered  quickly 
from  her  condition  of  semi-collapse.  Hitherto,  she  had 
accepted  Dorothy's  ministrations  without  protest,  and 


H  E  R     S  O  N  SI 

perhaps  without  surprise,  feeling — to  use  her  own 
words — too  much  of  a  worm  to  resist.  Now,  the  blood 
began  to  circulate  more  quickly,  the  look  of  slightly 
animal  stupidity  left  her  face,  giving  place  to  a  dawn- 
ing intelligence.  She  eyed  Dorothy  with  increasing 
alertness.  Then  she  said  bluntly: 

"  You  asked  me  to  tell  you  everything." 

"  Yes ;   but  if  you  are  still  too  weak " 

"  I'm  getting  stronger  every  minute.  Why  do  you 
want  to  know?  I  shouldn't,  if  I  were  you.  I'd  hold 
on  to  him,  if  I'd  got  him,  as  you  have.  And  how  do 
you  know  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  a  lot  of  lies  ?  Why 
should  you  believe  what  I  say?  " 

Her  voice  rose,  still  harsh,  with  shrill  derision  in  its 
tones. 

"  I  think  you  will  tell  me  the  truth." 

"  If  I  could  get  him  back  by  telling  lies,  I'd  tell  them. 
But  I  don't  think  he  ever  cared  much.  He  was  grate- 
ful, that's  all." 

"Grateful?" 

"I  stuck  my  knife  into  you  then,  didn't  I?  Why 
should  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne  be  grateful  to  me?  You 
want  to  know,  and  you  shall  know.  When  we  met  for 
the  first  time,  he  was  starving " 

"Oh!" 

"  Ask  him !  Yes,  starving.  I  fed  him.  We  had 
our  first  meal  together  at  my  expense.  He  drinks 
champagne  with  you,  I  daresay ;  we  had  stout.  It's 
meat  and  drink,  is  stout,  when  you're  down  on  your 

luck.  Dick  was  broke  and  green !  My!  But 

he'd  grit,  plenty  of  it!  He  might  have  crawled  whin- 


32  H  E  R     S  0  N 

ing  to  some  swell  relations,  but  he  didn't.  Well,  we 
had  our  sausages  and  stout,  and  Dick  told  me  that  he 
was  trying  to  make  a  living  with  his  pen.  He'd  pawned 
everything  he'd  got  except  what  he  stood  up  in,  and 
his  landlady  had  told  him  he  needn't  come  back  unless 
he  brought  his  rent  with  him.  May  be  you  know  all 
this?" 

"  He  told  me  a  part  of  it." 

"  But  never  mentioned  me,  I'll  be  bound." 

Dorothy  hesitated;   then  she  said:   "No." 

"  Not  likely.  Well,  I,"  the  pride  in  her  voice  flowed 
strongly;  her  fine  eyes  regained  some  of  their  fire, 
"  I  helped  him.  I  found  him  lodgings  in  the  same 
house  where  I  lodged ;  and  I  found  him  work.  I  dare- 
say he  told  you  about  a  set  of  articles  about  how  girls 
like  me  live — behind  the  scenes?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  I've  read  them.  They  were  wonderfully 
well  done." 

"  They  were  hot  out  of  the  oven.  All  this  time  we 
were  pals,  you  understand,  nothing  else.  I  was  singing 
and  dancing  at  the  Alcazar  then,  earning  enough  money 
to  keep  me  just  alive,  not  a  ha'penny  more,  but  I  might 
have  had  my  brougham  and  diamonds  too — for  the 
asking.  Believe  that?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  God's  truth.  I  liked  my  work  and  I  liked  my 
independence.  Then  Dick  fell  ill,  that  was  the  winter 
before  last.  Did  he  tell  you?  " 

"  That  he  nearly  died — yes." 

"  I  nursed  him.  The  doctor  said  I  pulled  him 
through.  There  wasn't  a  doubt  of  that.  I  did.  He 


H  E  R     S  O  N  33 

was  broke  again,  and  very,  very  low;  double  pneu- 
monia ;  I  think  he  wanted  to  die ;  but  I  wouldn't  let 
him.  I  tell  you  I  fought  for  his  life,  and  I  won  it — 
won  it.  Yes,  I  did.  He  can't  deny  it." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  wouldn't." 

"  You're  right,  he  wouldn't.  And  he  was  grateful. 
He  saw  how  it  was  with  me,  and — and — you  can  guess 
the  rest." 

Silence  fell  upon  the  genteel  room.  Dorothy,  un- 
able to  look  at  the  speaker,  stared  helplessly  at  her 
surroundings.  She  could  see  no  books,  no  needlework, 
none  of  those  blessed  trivialities  wherewith  lonely 
women  distract  their  thoughts  and  cheat  the  leaden 
hours.  She  was  beginning  to  understand  why  that 
fearful  wild  look  had  come  into  this  unhappy  creature's 
face.  And  yet  everything  connected  with  this  tragic 
story  was  subordinate  to  the  man  and  her  thought  of 
him.  From  the  first,  she  had  said  to  herself:  "  I  must 
be  fair  to  Dick.  I  must  not  judge  him  till  I  know  all." 

After  a  pause,  Dorothy  said  slowly :  "  I  can  guess 
part  of  the  rest,  but " 

"  Ask  any  questions  you  like." 

"  You  were  innocent,  till ?  " 

"  Innocent  ?  "  she  laughed.  "  Did  I  say  I  was  in- 
nocent? I  told  you  I  liked  independence,  not  inno- 
cence. There  was  one  other  before  Dick."  She  clenched 
her  hands  and  a  dull  fire  glowed  in  her  eyes.  "  A  brute 
of  a  manager!  I  was  mad  keen  to  get  on  the  stage, 
and  I  paid  the  price,  as  many  a  one  has  paid  it  before." 

"  You  poor  girl !  " 

Some  subtle  intonation,  some  hardly  perceptible  ges- 


34  H  E  R     S  O  N 

ture,  may  have  served  to  indicate  Dorothy's  hardly 
self-conscious  sense  of  relief.  Crystal  Wride  said 
quickly : 

"  You'll  forgive  Dick?  " 

But  Dorothy  made  no  reply.  It  seemed  incredible 
to  reflect  that  she  had  parted  from  Gasgoyne  that 
same  afternoon,  barely  two  hours  before,  and  that  she 
was  going  to  dine  with  him  at  eight  that  same  evening. 

"  This  happened  the  winter  before  last,"  Crystal  con- 
tinued. "  After  he  got  back  his  health  he  began  to 
make  money.  He  used  to  say  he'd  found  his  market. 
We  had  good  times — on  the  river " 

"  On  the  river  ?  "  Dorothy  gasped. 

"Yes.  But  we  stuck  to  business.  He  had  his  job; 
I  had  mine.  Then  his  paper  sent  him  to  the  Balkans, 
as  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Dorothy  could  hear  Gasgoyne's 
voice,  the  unmistakable  emphasis  he  had  laid  upon  the 
gladness  wherewith  he  had  accepted  the  mission.  "  I 
was  particularly  keen  to  go,"  he  had  said,  "  because 
I  was  sick  of  London,  sick  of  my  life  there."  But  she, 
the  girl  who  had  wrestled  for  that  life,  what  of  her? 

"You  had  to  part?" 

"  Yes ;  it  was  awful,  because  when  he  went  there  was 
nothing  left.  He  takes  up  a  lot  of  room,  does  Dick. 
Of  course,  you've  noticed  that?  " 

Again  her  eyes  played  keenly,  but  with  a  certain  fur- 
tiveness  over  Dorothy's  pale,  pain-twisted  face.  A 
physiognomist  might  have  detected  a  flitting  expres- 
sion of  cruelty:  a  cruelty  not  alien  to  jealousy.  When 
Crystal  had  seen  that  Dorothy  winced  at  her  familiar 


H  E  R     S  O  N  35 

use  of  Gasgoyne's  Christian  name,  she  had  used  it 
with  unnecessary  frequency. 

"  After  he'd  gone,  the  fog  seemed  to  settle  down 
thick,  but  I  stuck  to  work,  and  saved  money  against 
his  return.  I  took  these  rooms,  and  waited." 

Dorothy  shuddered.  Unconsciously,  the  speaker  had 
shewn  an  astonishing  tact  in  abstaining  from  details, 
in  leaving  the  "  waiting  "  to  Dorothy's  imagination. 

"  I  suppose  you  had  some  friends  ?  " 

"A  girl  or  two.  They  don't  count.  Girl  friends 
never  did  count  with  me.  I  never  spoke  to  a  man, 
except  to  tell  him  to  mind  his  own  business,"  she  added 
fiercely,  "  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that." 

"  I  worried  through  the  time,  thinking  of  Dick.  I 
used  to  sit  in  this  chair  for  hours  and  hours,  with  my 
eyes  half  shut,  seeing  him.  I'd  a  letter  or  two  from 
him.  He  writes  beautiful  letters,  as  you  know." 

The  "  as  you  know "  pierced  deep.  If  the  desire 
to  kill  had  passed  from  the  woman,  the  willingness  to 
wound  remained. 

"  He  came  back  last  April  after  the  war  was  over," 
said  Dorothy,  wishing  to  bring  her  torment  to  an  end. 

"  On  the  15th,"  said  Crystal  moodily,  "  he  came  in, 
kissed  me,  and  sat  down  in  your  chair.  You're  not 
going  to  faint,  are  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dorothy. 

She  remembered  Gasgoyne's  allusion  to  pitch.  Now, 
in  some  indescribable  way,  the  pitch  seemed  to  have 
touched  her.  She  also  had  become  part  of  this  soiled, 
unfragrant,  battered  room.  Dick  had  sat  where  she 


36  H  E  R     S  O  N 

was  sitting,  had  looked  at  the  clock  which  had  stopped 
for  ever,  and  had  wished,  perhaps,  that  he  had  died 
outside  of  Plevna.  Again  she  heard  his  voice,  when 
she  asked  the  natural  question :  "  Weren't  you  glad  to 
get  back?  "  his  odd  glance  aside,  his  half -nervous  reply  ; 
"  Oh,  as  to  that,  you  know,  I  was  not  coming  back,  like 
some  of  the  other  fellows,  to  a  cheery  home." 

To  a  cheery  home?  He  had  come  back  to  this, 
crawled  back  to  this,  because  nothing  else  was  possible 
to  a  man  with  a  spark  of  gratitude  or  decent  feeling. 
She  had  fed  him  when  he  was  starving,  had  nursed  him, 
had  loved  him  devotedly. 

"  We  began  again,  but  it  wasn't  quite  the  same. 
And  we  had  rows,  awful  rows ;  I  suppose  I  knew  some- 
how that  you  were  coming  in  sight.  In  May  you 
arrived." 

"  And  then ?  " 

There  was  a  pause.  To  Dorothy  everything  hung 
upon  the  answer  to  this  question.  Had  Gasgoyne  cast 
off  this  faithful  creature  with  brutality,  indifference, 
or  with  flimsy  excuses?  From  her  knowledge  of  him, 
she  answered  "  No  "  to  these  charges.  At  any  rate 
Gasgoyne  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  road. 

"  He  never  spoke  of  you  to  me,"  continued  the  girl 
defiantly,  "  but  I  guessed  that  Miss  Right  had  turned 
up,  and  it  made  me  mad.  While  he  was  away  I'd 
studied  to  improve  myself.  I  worked  hard:  yes,  I  did. 
I  daresay  you've  noticed  that  I  speak  like  you  do,  now, 
but  when  he  came  back  he  never  noticed  the  change. 
Perhaps  I  was  fool  enough  to  hope  that  he  might  marry 
me  some  day.  Bah !  I'll  be  maudlin  in  a  minute.  Any- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  37 

way  we  had  another  row,  the  last.  I  let  myself  go,  I 
tell  you,  and  he  never  said  a  word,  not  one.  He  sat 
where  you're  sitting,  staring  at  that  clock,  just  as  you're 
staring  at  it  now,  and  when  I'd  said  my  say,  he  got  up, 
and  went  away  without  a  word.  Mind  you,  I  told  him 
to  clear  out  and  never  come  back.  He  never  did." 

"  But,   surely " 

"  He  wrote  a  letter,  offering  to  settle  some  money ; 
it  wasn't  a  bad  letter;  but  I  tore  it  up  into  tiny  pieces 
and  sent  it  back.  Then  I  read  the  bit  in  the  paper 
about  his  marriage  to  you.  That  knocked  me  out. 
Then  I  caught  cold,  and  lost  my  voice,  and  came  near 
to  losing  my  billet  at  the  Levity.  All  this  time  I 
was  trying  to  find  out  where  you  lived.  I  went  to  a 
big  house  in  Portman  Square,  and  the  flunkeys  slammed 
the  door  in  my  face.  Dick  had  changed  his  address. 
But  I  hung  about  the  offices  of  his  paper,  and  one 
afternoon  followed  him  back  to  your  house.  After- 
wards I  watched  him  with  you,  more  than  once.  To- 
day, when  you  were  spooning  in  the  park,  I  was  behind 
the  bushes." 

Dorothy  sighed.  Was  nothing  to  be  spared  her? 
Was  she  also  condemned  to  drink  the  lees  of  another's 
cup,  to  share  every  pang,  to  feel  her  heart  stealing  out 
in  pity  from  the  man  she  loved  to  the  woman  from 
whom  she  shrank,  to  feel  also,  with  what  futile  resent- 
ment, with  what  shamefaced  humiliation,  that  she  was 
sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  slough  of  misery  and 
despond  which  must  needs  engulf  her  for  ever  and 
ever  ? 

And   as   before,   in   her   own   room,   the   temptation 


38  H  E  R     S  0  N 

assailed  her  with  greater  insistence  and  vehemence  to 
wrench  herself  free  from  contamination,  to  shut  eyes 
and  ears  to  a  misery  she  could  not  mitigate,  to  rise  and 
go,  and  never  to  come  back. 

"You'll  forgive  him,  eh?" 

The  harsh  voice  acted  as  a  sort  of  tonic ;  its  rasping, 
astringent  quality  seemed  to  tighten  resolution. 

"  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  of  myself  or  of  him," 
replied  Dorothy  hesitatingly. 

"  You  will  forgive  him,"  said  the  woman,  and  the 
jealousy  in  her  voice,  the  yearning,  moved  Dorothy 
profoundly.  "  Some  Wouldn't,  I  know.  He's  no 
great  catch  for  such  as  you,  is  Dick;  but  you  love 
him,  don't  you  ?  " 

They  had  risen,  and  were  looking  each  into  the 
other's  eyes.  Dorothy's  cheeks  flushed  scarlet.  That 
everything  she  held  most  sacred  should  be  dragged  in 
the  mud,  trampled  in  the  gutter,  soiled  permanently, 
and  that  she  should  stand  unresisting,  unable  even  to 
protest,  this  palsied  mind  and  body.  She  made  no 
reply. 

"  You  love  him,"  continued  the  other,  "  and  you'll 
marry  him,  and  be  the  mother  of  his  children " 

"  In  the  name  of  pity "  entreated  Dorothy. 

The  coarse  fibre  of  the  actress  failed  to  interpret 
these  subtile  vibrations. 

"  What  are  you  making  such  a  fuss  about  ?  You're 
not  a  schoolgirl.  How  old  are  you,  anyway?  " 

"  Fifty,"  said  Dorothy,  after  a  pause. 

"  Fifty  ?  Oh,  I  see.  Well,  I'm  a  hundred  and  fifty. 
Now,  look  here,  I  was  always  one  of  the  outspoken  ones. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  39 

I  wanted  to  kill  you,  spoil  your  good  looks  at  any 
rate,  not  that  you're  a  patch  on  me  for  them,  but 
somehow  you've  had  the  best  of  me.  In  your  quiet 
way  you've  come  out  on  top.  Well,  good-bye.  Get 
married!  I  shan't  forbid  the  banns." 

"  What — are — you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  "  She  laughed  derisively.  "  What  price  this 
little  lot,  eh?  Who's  bidding?  Old  Nick." 

"Don't!" 

"  Why  not?     What  is  it  to  you?  " 

"  Everything." 

"  Bah !  Talk's  cheap.  What  would  you  give  to 
save  my  soul,  my  soul,"  she  laughed  drearily,  "  which, 
like  that  old  clock,"  she  indicated  contemptuously  the 
timepiece,  "  has  ticked  away  its  best  days  ?  Come — 
how  much?  " 

She  leaned  forward,  almost  touching  Dorothy's 
smooth,  pale  cheeks,  her  eyes  smouldering  with  derision 
and  interrogation.  Dorothy  said  nothing.  What 
could  she  say?  Yet  she  faced  the  question,  tried  to 
answer  it.  Suppose  a  great  sacrifice  were  demanded. 

"How  much?"  mocked  the  other.  "All  your  wed- 
ding presents?  " 

"  Willingly." 

"  That  would  be  nothing.  Your  friends  would  give 
you  more.  What  else?  " 

She  saw  that  Dorothy  was  attempting  to  solve  the 
problem.  At  once  her  sense  of  the  dramatic  gripped 
her.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  Dorothy's  arm,  and  in  a 
harsh  penetrating  voice  evoked  horrors. 

"  If,  to-night,  I  went  down  to  the  river,  and  stood 


40  H  E  R     S  O  N 

on  Westminster  Bridge  with  nothing  between  me  and 
the  water,  nothing  between  me  and  the  Devil,  except 

you " 

"Yes?" 

"  Would  you  put  off  your  marriage  to  save  me  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  not." 

"  One  moment.  If  I  could  think  of  a  way Oh ! 

there  must  be  a  way.  But  it's  not  your  threat  of  doing 
this  dreadful  thing  which  is  driving  me.  No.  If  you 
jump  into  the  river  to-night,  I  shall  marry  Dick,  do 
you  understand?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

Dorothy  considered,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  pale,  pas- 
sion-twisted face  in  front  of  her.  Ought  she  to  consult 
Dick?  Then  she  said,  hesitatingly: 

"  Dick  and  I  must  pay  for  the  injury  done  you.  I'll 
speak  to  him." 

Crystal  laughed  scornfully. 

"  No — you  don't.  This  has  to  be  settled  here  and 
now.  If  I  go  back  to  my  work  and  keep  straight,  will 
you  put  off  your  marriage  for  one  little  year.  Yes,  or 
no?" 

Again  Dorothy  hesitated.  Although  twenty-one 
years  old,  she  was  still,  in  many  ways,  young  and 
inexperienced.  A  year  did  not  seem  a  very  long  time. 
And  it  would  give  to  her  time  to  adjust  shattered 
sensibilities.  To  marry  Dick  immediately  seemed  im- 
possible. 

"  What  is  one  little  year  to  you?  "  whispered  Crystal. 

Dorothy  clutched  her  arm. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  41 

"Will  you  live— straight?  " 

"  I  swear  I  will.     Give  me  the  chance." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  do  what  you  ask.  You  hurt  me 
just  now,  more  than  you  will  ever  know,  when  you 
spoke  of  my  future  happiness.  That  happiness  was 
very  near  a  few  hours  ago;  now  it  seems  far  away." 

"  You'll  be  happy  enough  soon." 

"  Not  at  your  expense,  not  with  the  feeling,  with — 
with  the  knowledge,"  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadily  upon 
the  other's,  "  that  you  are  going " 

"  To  Hell.  Out  with  it !  How  squeamish  you  swells 
are!  Well,  you're  not  a  bad  sort,  and  you  mean  what 
you  say  now,  but  to-morrow,"  she  laughed  drearily, 
not  finishing  her  sentence. 

"  I  shall  feel  just  the  same  to-morrow." 

"  I  shan't,  thank  the  Lord !  " 

Dorothy  shuddered,  seeing  the  river,  the  Lethe  of 
all  such  despairing  creatures.  Crystal,  pale  and  hag- 
gard, seemed  to  have  collapsed.  She  lay  back  in  her 
chair,  but  between  her  reddened  eyelids,  narrowed  to 
a  mere  feline  slit,  glanced  furtively  at  the  girl  Dick 
wanted  to  marry.  A  minute  at  least  must  have  passed 
before  Dorothy,  leaning  forward,  said  quietly: 

"  I  know  how  you  feel ;  I  can  put  myself  in  your 
place.  You  might  live  without  Dick;  you  have  lived 
without  Dick,  but  you  can't  live  knowing  that  he  be- 
longs to  me." 

Crystal  nodded. 

"  You've  hit  it.  I've  seen  starving  kids  flattening 
their  noses  against  the  cook-shop  windows.  The  sight 
of  other  people's  blessings  has  driven  many  a  woman 
crazy." 


42  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  I'll  help  you,  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  make  things 
easier,  but  they'll  be  hard  for  both  of  us." 

"  You'll  chuck  him  at  the  last  moment?  " 

"  If  you  promise  to  do  what  I  ask." 

"  Won't  he  be  wild !  And  for  a  year,  a  whole  year, 
you'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  him?  " 

"  If  you  insist " 

"  You  and  he  mustn't  meet;  and,  you  mustn't  write." 

"  I'm  willing  to  pledge  myself  to  that." 

Crystal  smiled.  Her  brain,  working  slower,  began 
to  grasp  the  two  sides  of  the  situation.  Salvation  was 
presented  as  a  mountain  between  Dick  and  a  rival ; 
damnation  destroyed  not  only  herself  but  this  obstacle 
also. 

"  Done,"  she  said  with  a  harsh  laugh.  "  I'll  worry 
on  a  bit  longer.  Only  I'd  like  to  see  his  face  when  you 
tell  him.  He's  accustomed  to  having  his  own  way,  is 
Dick." 

She  saw  the  shadows  in  Dorothy's  eyes  and  misinter- 
preted their  meaning. 

"  You'll  weaken,  maybe  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  No." 

"  How  am  I  to  be  sure  of  that?  And  if  you  do 
weaken,  if  you  do,"  she  began  to  tremble,  and  then, 
controlling  herself,  added  fiercely,  "  Suppose  you've 
been  playing  with  me.  Eh?  You're  a  woman,  a  girl, 
and  he's  a  strong  man.  You'll  be  putty  in  his  hands." 

To  her  astonishment,  she  saw  Dorothy's  eyes  wander- 
ing round  the  room,  evidently  in  search  of  something. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  Paper,  pen,  and  ink." 

"Oh!" 


H  E  R     S  O  N  43 

She  crossed  the  room,  opened  a  battered  bureau,  and 
took  from  it  writing  materials. 

"  Going  to  write  to  him,  are  you?  " 

"  No." 

Dorothy  chose  a  plain  sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  a 
few  lines  upon  it.  These  she  read  aloud: 

"  The  marriage  arranged  between  Mr.  Richard  Gas- 
goyne  and  Dorothy,  daughter  of  the  late  George  Fair- 
fax, F.  R.  C.  S.,  etc.,  has  been  indefinitely  postponed." 

Dorothy  placed  this  and  one  of  her  cards  in  an 
envelope,  which  she  directed  to  the  editor  of  a  morning 
paper. 

"  You  can  post  it  yourself,"  she  said  quietly. 

They  parted  without  more  words.  Crystal,  indeed, 
stood  agape  with  surprise;  but  when  the  front  door 
had  slammed,  her  frowning  brows  relaxed.  She  went 
to  her  bedroom,  and  examined  herself  in  a  looking-glass ; 
then  she  glanced  with  longing  at  her  bed,  feeling,  as 
she  looked,  dead-beat.  The  temptation  to  lie  down,  to 
rest  aching  limbs  and  head,  assailed  her.  But,  if 
she  failed  to  appear  at  the  theatre,  she  would  certainly 
lose  her  engagement,  hanging  already  by  a  thread. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated;  then,  with  a  defiant 
smile  upon  her  face,  she  began  to  repair,  with  paint 
and  powder,  the  ravages  of  misery  and  madness.  A 
few  hours  later,  after  the  performance  at  the  Levity, 
the  stage  manager  said  to  her : 

"  You're  in  your  old  form,  I'm  glad  to  see.  Struck 
a  bit  of  all  right,  I  daresay." 

"  I  nearly  did,"  replied  Crystal,  "  but  if  you  want 
the  truth  the  bit  of  all  right  struck  me  instead." 


CHAPTER   III 

AFTER  leaving  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road,  Dorothy  did 
not  return  at  once  to  the  Doll's  House.  She  wished  to 
prepare  for  the  coming  interview  with  Gasgoyne,  to 
fortify  herself  with  the  tonic  of  movement  and  fresh 
air ;  to  shake  off,  if  it  were  possible,  the  stifling,  cling- 
ing atmosphere  of  those  shabby,  soiled  rooms  into 
which  she  had  walked  a  girl,  out  of  which  she  came  a 
woman.  For  the  moment  all  human  habitations  were, 
so  to  speak,  begrimed  with  soot  and  smoke.  The  large 
spaces  of  Hyde  Park  allured  her  because  they  reminded 
her  of  the  clean  country;  she  eyed  the  foot-passen- 
gers almost  with  hostility,  as  if  they  were  trespassers ; 
she  wished  passionately  that  she  could  be  really  alone 
in  a  vast  prairie,  breathing  untainted  air,  seeing  noth- 
ing but  earth  and  sky. 

Presently,  she  found  an  empty  bench  and  sat  down. 
In  the  mid-distance  sparkled  the  Serpentine ;  far  away 
to  her  left  she  could  see  the  sharp  irregular  outline 
of  the  roofs  of  the  big  houses  in  Park  Lane ;  hard  by, 
to  her  right,  was  the  Powder  Magazine.  She  had 
passed  it  hundreds  of  times,  had  played  as  a  child 
within  a  few  yards  of  it,  but  till  now  its  tremendous 
significance  had  escaped  her  notice.  She  surveyed  its 
squat  ugliness  with  dilating  eyes.  That  it  should  be 
placed  here,  in  the  heart  of  a  pleasaunce  designed 
only  for  man's  recreation  and  entertainment,  seemed 

44 


H  E  R     S  O  N  45 

to  her  inevitable.  What  better  .spot  could  be  found? 
As  an  object  lesson,  however,  its  utility  was  impaired, 
because  it  never  blew  up.  A  violent  explosion  oc- 
curring unexpectedly  at  least  once  a  year  would  be 
so  natural  and  appropriate. 

Such  thoughts  flitted  through  Dorothy's  mind  like 
bats  dimly  discerned  in  the  twilight.  She  realised  that 
in  her  an  explosion  had  taken  place,  and  she  was  unable 
as  yet  to  determine  the  nature  and  extent  of  her  in- 
juries. With  a  curious  sense  of  detachment  she  began 
to  think  of  its  effect  upon  Gasgoyne.  She  had  suffered 
laceration  in  silence;  Gasgoyne  would  cry  out.  Al- 
ready she  could  hear  a  soul-piercing  protest.  If  she 
could  spare  him,  if  she  could  temper  the  horrible  sud- 
denness of  it  all,  the  indecent  violence,  how  gladly 
would  she  do  so,  even  if  her  own  pain  were  doubled  in 
intensity. 

Perhaps  at  this  moment,  anticipating  the  suffering 
of  another,  the  maternal  instinct  burst  from  a  merely 
dormant  bud  into  full  flower.  She  felt  that  she  had 
become  years  older  than  her  lover,  that  her  love  for 
him  had  changed  its  aspect.  When  she  told  Crystal 
that  she  was  fifty,  unconsciously  she  had  uttered  the 
truth.  The  explosion,  indeed,  had  shattered — tem- 
porarily at  any  rate — her  youth.  It  is  not  exaggera- 
tion to  add  that  she  felt  a  greater  pity  for  Crystal 
and  for  Gasgoyne  than  for  herself.  Men,  stricken  to 
death  upon  the  battlefield,  have  been  known  to  minister 
to  others  but  lightly  wounded,  oblivious  of  their  own 
mortal  injuries.  In  this  sense  of  partial  paralysis 
Dorothy  considered  what  she  should  say  to  Gasgoyne. 


46  H  E  R     S  O  N 

When  she  rose  to  return  to  her  home  and  the 
man  awaiting  her  there,  it  was  nearly  eight  o'clock. 
The  world  was  going  out  to  dine.  The  hansoms  flashed 
by,  revealing  laughing  faces,  wide  expanses  of  shirt, 
shimmering  satins  and  filmy  laces.  Dorothy  stared 
at  the  revellers  in  wonder.  For  the  first  time  she  felt 
herself  to  be  an  outsider,  beyond  the  pale  of  these 
pleasure-seekers.  And  yet,  without  doubt,  explosions 
had  been  in  their  lives.  The  mirth,  for  the  most  part, 
was  superficial,  indicating  nothing  so  much  as  the  desire 
to  conceal  what  lay  beneath.  In  time,  possibly  in  a 
day  or  two,  she  would  join  this  procession  as  before, 
seemingly  not  the  least  joyous  of  the  pilgrims,  and 
make-believe  with  the  best  of  them. 

Susan  Judkins  told  her  that  Mr.  Gasgoyne  was  in 
the  drawing-room. 

"  You're  very  late,  Miss  Dorothy." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Dorothy. 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  closed  the 
door.  Gasgoyne,  who  was  reading  the  evening  paper 
and  glancing  over  an  article  of  his  own,  rose  to  greet  her 
with  a  glad  exclamation.  She  let  him  kiss  her,  wonder- 
ing if  it  were  for  the  last  time.  Then  he  said,  not 
crossly,  but  wonderingly :  "  How  very  late  you  are, 
Doll.  Where  have  you  been?  " 

She  answered  directly: 

"  In  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road." 

Afterwards  she  felt  that  she  had  dealt  him  too  sud- 
den a  blow.  He  stared  at  her  intently,  and  repeated 
her  phrase: 


H  E  R     S  O  N  47 

"  In  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road?  " 

"  Yes ;  Crystal  Wride  saw  the  announcement  of  our 
marriage;  she  came  here;  I  took  her  back  in  a  cab; 
she  told  me  everything,  you  understand — everything.'* 

His  brain  leaped  to  a  triumphant  conclusion. 

"  You  have  forgiven  me,  my  sweet  Dorothy ;  you 
let  me  kiss  you." 

"  I  have  forgiven  you,"  she  said  dully. 

"  That  you  and  she  should  have  met,"  he  muttered 
miserably.  "Why  did  she  come?" 

"  The  poor,  unhappy  creature  wanted  to,  to  hurt 
me." 

"But  she  didn't?" 

"  Not  in  the  sense  you  mean." 

"  Thank  God !  Doll,  she  helped  me  when  I  was  starv- 
ing; she  nursed  me;  but  I  didn't  abandon  her.  She 
drove  me  from  her." 

"  I  know  that.  Dick,  I  have  made  a  sort  of  bargain 
with  Crystal  Wride." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  must  tell  you." 

She  told  the  story  from  beginning  to  end  with  sim- 
ple dignity.  Gasgoyne,  leaning  his  head  upon  his 
hand,  listened  attentively,  not  interrupting  by  word 
or  gesture.  So  he  had  listened  to  the  other,  in  absolute 
silence;  and  at  the  end  he  had  got  up  and  had 
without  a  word.  Dorothy  remembered  this.  With 
she  reflected,  silence  indicated  fear,  not  lack  of  speech. 
He  might  say  nothing  now,  because  of  the  danger  of 
saying  too  much.  When  she  had  finished,  he  did  get 


48  H  E  R     S  O  N 

up,  and  she  thought  from  his  face  and  manner  that  he 
~was  about  to  leave  her.  Instead,  he  said  with  seeming 
irrelevance : 

"  I  have  just  been  asked  to  lead  an  expedition  into 
Central  Africa.  I  refused,  of  course."  He  stared  at 
Tier  tentatively.  She  was  too  tired  and  muddled  to 
understand  him.  Then,  with  an  entire  change  of  man- 
ner, speaking  quickly  and  vehemently,  he  continued: 
"  Doll,  you  have  let  Crystal  get  the  better  of  you.  I 
know  her  power,  none  better.  You  are  about  as  fitted 
to  deal  with  her  as  a  dove  is  with  a  cat.  She  is  very 
clever  and  an  accomplished  actress.  You  have  sacri- 
ficed yourself  and  me.  Let  us  admit  that  I  deserve 
punishment.  But  loving  you,  knowing  that  you  love 
me,  I  protest  against  your  punishment."  He  closed 
his  lips,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  saying  more.  It  was 
like  Dick,  Dorothy  reflected,  to  refuse  to  justify  himself 
.at  the  expense  of  the  woman  who  had  fought  for  his 
life. 

"  She  loved  you." 

"  Love !  What  a  word  to  use.  Oh,  the  ingenuity  of 
this  woman;  she  knows  that  my  tongue  is  tied,  that  to 

you "  he  broke  off  suddenly ;  when  he  continued 

his  voice  was  steady  again.  "  I  don't  excuse  myself, 
and  if  you  choose  to  take  the  line  which  some  girls 
not  fit  to  black  your  boots  would  take,  if  you  break 
from  me  because  of  what  I  have  been  and  done,  I  do 
not  blame  you ;  but  you're  too  good  and  wise  and  kind." 

"  Dick,  dear  Dick,  I  must  make  the  attempt.  If  I 
fail,  then,  then " 

Gasgoyne  laughed  bitterly. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  4£ 

"  Oh,  yes,  then  the  ban  will  be  lifted.  And  in  the 

meantime  we  are  to  wait,  to  wait Let  me  tell  you 

that  she'll  keep  us  waiting." 

"  Dick,  if  you  could  look  into  my  heart." 

"  I  can,  I  do,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  because  of  that 
I  feel  so  helpless.  You  have  tied  yourself  into  knots 
which  I  know  that  I  can't  undo,  and  that  you  won't." 

"  Time  may  undo  them." 

"  Time?  "  He  regarded  her  keenly.  "  Time,  you 
say?  Ah,  I  see.  Good  and  wise  as  you  are,  Doll, 
you  have  the  instinct  of  your  sex  to  sit  on  the  fence 
while  others  fight  for  the  possession  of  you.  Hear  me 
out!  Time,  eh?  To  a  man  there  is  no  time  save  the 
present.  This  is  our  hour,  but  you  don't  know  it.  You 
prefer  to  live  in  some  shadowy  future." 

"Dick!" 

"  If  I'm  brutal,  forgive  me,  but  it's  you  I'm  thinking 
of,  you.  I  shall  be  busy  enough  in  Africa — 

"  Then  you  are  going?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going,  unless  you  say — stay."  Then 
he  added  explosively :  "  You  think  time  will  put  things 
right,  bring  us  together,  to  be  happy  for  ever  and 
ever.  Doll,  time  is  not  so  kind  as  that.  A  year  hence 
— who  knows?  We  shall  have  changed,  that  is  inevi- 
table. If  we  come  together,  it  will  not  be  the  same 
thing." 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  experience  of  all  the  world  is  against  it. 
From  a  mistaken  sense  of  honour  you  are  parting  us.'* 

"  I  have  promised." 

"  You  promised  to  marry  me  next  Tuesday  week. 


50  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Look  here,  Doll,  let  me  deal  with  Crystal  Wride." 
His  voice  grew  persuasive. 

"  Let  me  deal  with  her,"  he  repeated. 

"  No,  no ;    it  would  be  too  cruel." 

"  Lay  the  facts  before  your  friend,  Lady  Curragh. 
Come,  let  her  arbitrate." 

"  Dick,  how  can  I  leave  a  point  of  conscience  to 
another?  " 

Gasgoyne  sighed.  He  saw  so  clearly ;  and  her  vision 
was  blurred. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  From  this  moment 
you  are  free." 

"Free?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  will  do  as  you  please,  live  where 
you  please,  associate  with  whom  you  please." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  I?  Oh,  I  shall  be  bound  to  you  always."  Then, 
seeing  her  lips  quiver,  her  eyes  wet,  he  made  his  last 
appeal.  Without  warning  he  took  her  into  his  arms, 
kissing  her  hair,  her  cheeks,  her  lips  with  a  passion 
more  eloquent  and  overpowering  than  any  words.  At 
the  end  he  said  entreatingly : 

"  Doll,  am  I  to  go  or  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Dick,  you  break  my  heart ;  but  you  must  go." 

"  Good-bye,  you  dear  angel,"  he  said,  and  went. 

After  he  had  gone  Solomon  tried  to  comfort  her. 
The  sympathy  in  his  eyes  was  unmistakable,  although 
he  knew  that  his  mistress  had  acted  with  indiscreet 
haste.  But  dogs  would  not  be  the  finest  comrades  in  af- 
fliction if,  like  bipeds,  they  tried  to  staunch  tears  with 


H  E  R     S  O  N  51 

words.  When  Dorothy  cried,  Solomon  cuddled  up  close 
to  her,  but,  presently,  he  jumped  from  her  lap  and 
sat  up,  begging,  entreating  her  to  stop  because  in  his 
opinion  she  had  wept  enough.  He  whined  and  then 
barked  sharply.  Dorothy  looked  at  him. 

"  You're  right,"  she  said.     "  I'm  a  fool  to  cry  my 
eyes  out,  but,  oh,  Solomon,  I'm  so  miserable." 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHAT  tragedy  has  not  its  humours?  When  it  be- 
came known  in  Portman  Square  that  "  poor,  dear 
Dorothy  " — from  the  hour  she  left  their  house,  the 
Helminghams  invariably  spoke  of  their  niece  with  these 
qualifying  adjectives — was  not  going  to  marry  that 
"  adventurer "  Richard  Gasgoyne  (already  en  route 
for  Sierra  Leone)  Sir  Augustus  proclaimed  the  inter- 
ference of  Providence,  and  that  he,  for  his  part,  was 
willing  to  overlook  a  most  regrettable  incident.  Lady 
Helmingham  ordered  her  carriage  and  drove  to  Oakley 
Street. 

"Why  has  this  absurd  marriage  been  broken  off?'* 

"  It  has  been — postponed,"  faltered  Dorothy. 

"  Why,  why?  I  insist,  your  uncle  insists,  upon  know- 
ing the  truth.  People  are  saying  that  you  have  been 
jilted." 

"  As  if  I  cared." 

Aunt  Charlotte  groaned. 

"  You  ought  to  care ;  it  is  disgraceful  not  to  care. 
And  we,  all  of  us,  are  in  an  embarrassing  position. 
Everybody  is  chattering,  and  I  have  to — fib.  Last 
night,  the  dear  Duke  of  Anglia — oh,  you  are  the  most 
exasperating  young  person." 

"  I  must  be,"  said  Dorothy  meekly ;  then,  ve- 
hemently, she  entreated :  "  Please,  please  don't  ask 
any  more  questions."  At  her  distress  the  good  aunt 
melted. 

52 


H  E  R     S  O  N  53 

"  Very  well.  Only  you  must  come  home  with  me, 
my  dear  child.  You  are  as  white  as  a  sheet.  We'll  go 
down  into  the  country  next  week,  and  our  fine  air — and, 
perhaps,  some  cod-liver  oil — and  a  little  cheerful  com- 
panionship  " 

"  You  have  always  been  too  kind " 

"  These  things  will  happen,"  purred  Aunt  Charlotte. 
"  Why,  when  I  was  about  your  age,  I  had  an  affair," 
the  worthy  dame  sighecl  faintly,  "  with  a  charming 
young  fellow  whom  I  positively  adored.  He  was  in 
a  line  regiment,  and  in  his  uniform  I  can  assure  you 
that  he  looked — well,  I  have  a  daguerreotype,  which 
I  may  show  you  some  day.  He  jilted  me — the  wretch! 
and  I  cried  my  eyes  out.  But  everything  turned  out 
for  the  best.  Within  a  year  I  met  your  dear  uncle. 
Shall  I  tell  Susan  Judkins  to  pack  your  boxes?  " 

"  Aunt  Charlotte,  you  mustn't  think  me  ungrateful, 
but  I  must  stay  here.  I  must — I  must." 

"  You  mustn't,  my  dear,  you  really  mustn't.  Come, 
be  reasonable." 

"  That's  it.  If  only  I  were  not  reasonable,  if  I  could 
feel  and  behave  as  Amy  behaves." 

The  fond  mother  blinked,  unable  to  believe  her  ears. 

"  You  don't  accuse  Amy  of  being  unreasonable, 
Dorothy?" 

"  She  is  .a  perfect  dear,"  said  Dorothy  hastily,  "  but 
the  object  of  her  life  seems  to  be  the  study  of  your 
wishes,  not  her  own." 

"And  what  more  natural?" 

"  To  me  it  seems  so  unnatural.  She  is  twenty  years 
old,  and  apparently  quite  healthy,  but  the  exercise  she 


54s  H  E  R     S  O  N 

likes  best  is  a  two  hours'  drive  every  afternoon  with 
you." 

"  Good  gracious !  You  are  certainly  a  most  strange 
young  woman." 

"  Dear  Aunt  Charlotte,  I  am  sure  I  must  be,  if  you 
say  so,  but  don't  you  see  that  because  I  am  such  a 
stranger  to  you,  it  is  better  that  we  should  live  apart?  " 

*'  The  scandalous  things  that  will  be  said ! " 

"As  to  that— pouf-f-f!" 

"  My  dear,  you  should  not  say  *  Pouf-f-f '  to  me." 

"  I  say  it  to  Mrs.  Grundy,  not  to  you." 

In  the  end  Lady  Helmingham  retired  defeated.  Then 
Sir  Augustus  wrote  a  letter  in  the  spirit  in  which  he 
ventured  to  hope  it  would  be  read  by  his  dead  sister's 
child.  Dorothy  cried  over  it  and  laughed  over  it,  but 
she  declined  to  go  down  into  East  Anglia. 

Lady  Curragh  attempted  to  move  this  well-meaning, 
but  reckless,  young  person  from  Oakley  Street.  As 
Moira  Dunsany  she  had  been  Dorothy's  first  and  al- 
most only  great  friend.  After  the  death  of  George 
Fairfax  the  girls  saw  but  little  of  each  other.  Then 
Moira  married  Lord  Curragh,  and  immediately  cap- 
tured a  position  in  London  society,  which,  gradually, 
became,  so  to  speak,  a  sort  of  Gibraltar.  Five  and 
twenty  years  ago,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  married 
woman  began  to  assert  herself.  The  odious  expression 
"  professional  beauty  "  was  coined  in  those  prehistoric 
times.  The  great  American  invasion  had  begun.  The 
boldest  of  the  bold  among  the  young  wives  drove  in  han- 
soms, lunched  and  dined  in  restaurants,  smoked  cigar- 
ettes, and  played  poker.  The  Old  Guard,  headed  by  the 


H  E  R     S  O  N  55 

early-Victorian  duchesses,  predicted  the  end  of  all 
things,  a  debacle;  everybody  else  was  enormously 
amused. 

Moira  Curragh  had  wit,  high  health,  and  an  appe- 
tite for  what  she  called  the  good  things  of  life.  Her 
Gibraltar,  a  snug  house  in  Curzon  Street,  was  held  to 
be  impregnable  against  the  assaults  of  bores  of  what- 
ever calibre.  Very  big  guns  indeed  opened  fire  upon 
this  small  fortress ;  there  were  mining  and  counter- 
mining, frontal  attacks  and  sorties,  much  sniping,  and 
more  than  one  case  of  treason  within  the  garrison,  but, 
in  the  end,  the  siege  was  raised. 

To  Moira  Curragh  Dorothy  told  her  story.  Being 
an  Irishwoman  and  an  optimist,  Moira  was  strongly 
of  opinion  that  things  would  come  right.  Gasgoyne 
would  return  from  Central  Africa  covered  with  glory ; 
Crystal  Wride,  touched  by  Dorothy's  self-sacrifice, 
would  become  a  reformed  character  and  marry,  per- 
haps, a  well-to-do  tradesman ;  Dorothy's  own  wedding 
would  transmute  all  the  tears  that  had  been  shed  into 
diamonds  and  rubies.  Into  this  jam  was  popped  a 
few  grains  of  powder. 

"  Of  course,  you've  behaved  like  a  saint,  but  I  feel 
most  awfully  sorry  for  your  Dick." 

"  You  think  I  ought " 

"  Let  us  leave  the  oughts  to  the  tabbies.  Person- 
ally, I  should  have  kept  out  of  Pimlico." 

"  Pimlico  came  to  Chelsea.  In  my  place  you  would 
have  done  what  I  did." 

"  I  daresay.  I  generally  do  the  wrong  thing,  al- 
though I  say  the  right  word.  I  say  to  you :  *  Come 


56  H  E  R     S  O  N 

to  Homburg.'  If  you  stop  here  when  everybody  is 
out  of  town  you'll  get  horribly  blue,  and  you'll  forget 
how  to  laugh.  By  the  time  Romeo  comes  back,  you'll 
be  a  fright." 

"  I  shall  stay  here." 

Not  long  after  this  Lady  Curragh  saw  Crystal 
Wride  playing  at  the  Levity.  Next  day  she  said  to 
Dorothy : 

"  I've  seen  that  girl ;  she  has  great  talent ;  she's  not 
likely  to  marry  a  greengrocer.  How  did  Solomon  re- 
ceive her?  " 

"  He  tried  to  bite  her,  poor  creature." 

"  Solomon  is  wiser  than  any  of  us.  This  woman 
meant  to  scratch  your  face,  and  I  wish  she  had.  But 
you  chose  to  wear  your  heart  upon  your  sleeve,  and 
she  was  clever  enough  to  put  her  beak  and  claws  into 
that  instead.  Have  you  heard  from  Romeo  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You've  written,  of  course?  " 

"  No.  You  see  I  promised  her  that  for  a  year  I 
would  have  no  communication  with  him." 

"  Doll,  what  a  heavenly  fool  you  are !  " 

"  If  you  think  that  I'm  proud  of  myself,  you  are 
even  a  bigger  fool  than  I  am." 

Shortly  after  this  Lady  Curragh  went  to  Homburg. 

During  the  dog  days,  Solomon,  naturally  enough, 
became  rather  cross.  He  hated  Oakley  Street  and  pro- 
tested hourly  against  the  heat  and  confinement  of  town 
life.  Dorothy  paid  several  visits  to  Vauxhall  Bridge 
Road,  but  Solomon  refused  to  accompany  her.  So 


H  E  R     S  O  N  57 

she  went  alone.  At  first  Crystal  assumed  a  slightly 
sullen,  defiant  manner ;  Dorothy  knew  that  she  had 
something  to  say  and  not  the  ghost  of  a  notion  how 
to  say  it.  Nevertheless,  between  the  two  girls  stretched 
an  attenuated  thread  of  sympathy.  And,  presently, 
Crystal  spoke.  The  stage  manager,  omniscient  of 
course,  had  hinted  at  preferment. 

"  He  says  I'm  too  good  for  the  Levity."  Crystal 
imparted  this  information  with  an  air  of  conscious 
pride.  "  He'll  get  me  a  billet  at  one  of  the  regular 
theatres.  With  half  a  chance  I'll  shew  all  of  you  what 
I  can  do.  I  mean  business,  straight  business,  on  and 
off  the  stage.  I  can  sing,  and  dance,  and  act.  Kate 
Vaughan  can't  do  more,  can  she?  " 

"  You  are  very  ambitious." 

"  I'll  get  to  the  top,  if  I  can.  You  make  no  error 
about  that." 

Dorothy  divined  the  truth.  Crystal  had  a  will  made 
of  triple  brass.  She  might  climb  high.  If  she  became 
a  star,  would  Dick  be  dazzled?  This  question  shone 
in  Crystal's  eyes,  rang  in  her  voice.  Because  of  Dick 
she  meant  "  straight  business."  There  was  a  pathos 
about  her  determination  which  brought  tears  to  Doro- 
thy's heart.  By  this  time  she  had  guessed  that  Crystal 
was  very  clever,  although  she  displayed  a  subtlety,  a 
finesse,  in  her  intercourse  with  Dorothy,  which  Dorothy 
did  not  perceive  or  appreciate  till  afterwards.  To 
give  an  instance:  Crystal  spoke  often  of  her  voice 
as  true  enough  and  strong  enough  to  attract  the 
groundlings,  but  quite  untrained.  Dorothy  paid  for 
a  number  of  lessons  of  which  Crystal  took  every 


58  H  E  R     S  O  N 

advantage.  Dorothy  reflected  that  she  was  doing 
penance,  for  she  had  come  to  dislike  Crystal  more,  and 
to  pity  her  less.  She  was  aware  that  the  actress  had 
angled  for  a  cheque;  and  she  wrote  it — you  must  un- 
derstand— not  in  surrender  to  cupidity  and  acuteness, 
but  in  obedience  to  an  ever-increasing  desire  to  atone 
for  what  Gasgoyne  had  done  and  left  undone.  She 
admitted  candidly  that  Crystal  was  entitled  to  great 
credit  (being  the  woman  she  was)  inasmuch  as  she 
had  refused  Dick's  money.  For  Crystal  loved  money 
as  a  cat  loves  sardines.  Dorothy  took  her  out  to  dine, 
and  discovered  that  she  was  greedy,  and  not  ashamed 
of  it.  Upon  the  other  hand,  she  exercised  self-denial 
at  home,  because,  as  she  pointed  out — if  there  were 
"  ups "  in  the  "  profesh,"  no  member  of  it  could 
wisely  ignore  the  "  downs."  She  exhibited  genius  in 
the  making,  and  remaking,  of  the  stage  costumes,  which 
she  was  expected  to  buy  out  of  her  small  salary.  Doro- 
thy, after  an  inspection  of  the  mahogany  wardrobe, 
wrote  another  cheque.  She  wrote  also  a  letter  to  Moira 
Curragh  which  explains  motives  in  her  own  words: 

"  I  am  seeing  a  great  deal  of  C.  W.,  who  interests 
me  enormously,  although  I  know  that  she  delights  in 
rubbing  my  fur  the  wrong  way.  She  is  intensely  am- 
bitious ;  and  really  believes  that  she  lacks  nothing  except 
*  luck  '  to  eclipse  Kate  Vaughan,  who  is  her  ideal.  Also, 
she  has  really  an  elementary  moral  sense.  She  might  ad- 
vance quickly,  if  she  were  willing  to  do  as  the  4  others  ' 
do.  Of  these  *  others  '  I  hear  too  much,  for  what  they  do 
and  whom  they  do  are  a  favourite  subject  of  conversa- 
tion. One  is  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  a  woman  of 


H  E  R     S  O  N  59 

that  class,  not  so  much  immoral  as  unmoral,  is  certain  to 
achieve  a  sort  of  success  and  even  a  position  if  she  makes 
the  most  of  her  opportunities.  C.'s  temptations  are 
simply  frightful.  And  she  resists  them  valiantly.  This, 
somehow,  appeals  to  me — and  she  knows  it!  I  have 
given  her  money,  but  she  is  not  grateful,  or  perhaps 
I  should  rather  say  that  her  gratitude,  to  quote  some 
wit  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  is  '  a  lively  sense  of 
further  favours  to  come.'  But  somewhere  hidden  away 
is  a  heart.  Of  that  I  have  not  a  shadow  of  doubt.  I 
have  had  a  glimpse  of  it  more  than  once. 

"  Often  she  hurls  Dick's  name  at  my  head.  I  try 
to  duck,  but  she  hits  me  every  time,  and  smiles  tri- 
umphantly. Yesterday,  she  asked  me  point-blank  if 
I  had  written  to  him,  and  this  after  my  promise  to  her  I 
I  said,  '  No,'  with  a  feeble  show  of  dignity.  I  am  sure 
she  thinks  that  he  and  I  are  in  constant  communication. 
To  my  great  relief  she  has  secured  a  place  in  a  country 
company.  When  she  returns  to  town  she  will  be  given 
a  smart  part  at  one  of  the  big  theatres:  this  is  spoken 
of  with  grasping  solemnity  as  the  second  rung  on 
Fame's  ladder.  I  am  leaving  town  also,  and  mean  to 
bury  myself  with  Susan  and  Solomon  in  the  New 
Forest." 

Dorothy,  indeed,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  had 
become  possessed  of  an  overpowering  desire  to  be  alone. 
Under  other  skies  she  might,  perhaps,  be  able  to  adjust, 
to  arrange  and  classify,  her  disordered  emotions  and 
sensibilities.  Lady  Curragh  replied  to  the  letter  we 
have  just  presented  by  entreating  her  friend  to  join. 


60  H  E  R     S  0  N 

her  in  Ireland   whither  she  had  gone  after  the  cure  at 
Homburg. 

"  We  face  the  bay  of  Donegal,  and  you  can  breathe 
the  purest  and  most  bracing  air  in  the  world.  Doll, 
you  are  blue,  and  you'll  be  getting  morbid  if  you  go 
on  prowling  about  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road.  Indeed,  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  things  have  turned  out  for  the 
best.  Dick  will  become  famous.  Curragh  says  he  is  of 
the  stuff  that  all  successful  men  are  made  of.  Do  come 
here!  We  are  such  a  cheery  party." 

But  Dorothy  declined  this  kind  invitation,  and 
others.  Her  cousin  Amy  wrote  prettily  from  East 
Anglia,  where  the  partridges  had  done  quite  too 
splendidly  well,  so  dear  papa  said.  A  propos  that 
rather  nice  Lord  Ipswich  was  coming  to  shoot.  And 
Dorothy  ought  really  to  see  the  herbaceous  border. 
And  the  Maltese  cat  had  had  kittens,  such  darlings ! 
And  there  was  a  rather  nice  new  baby  at  the  vicar- 
age. And  Mother  sent  fondest  love.  .  .  .  Doro- 
thy sighed  as  she  read  this  simple  epistle;  for  the 
moment  she  envied  Amy,  and  wished  that  she  could 
think  everything  and  everybody  rather  '  nice.'  Then, 
in  reaction,  she  told  herself  positively  that  she  would 
sooner  spend  a  month  with  Crystal,  even  in  Vauxhall 
Bridge  Road,  than  a  week  with  Amy  at  Helming- 
ham  Court.  Crystal,  with  all  her  shortcomings,  was 
strong,  alert,  vital;  a  woman.  The  other  was  only 
a  caterpillar,  crawling  from  one  blade  of  grass  to 
another. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  61 

Upon  the  eve  of  departure  from  town,  she  learned 
a  piece  of  news  of  enormous  importance.  During  the 
past  six  weeks  she  had  been  curiously  sensible  that  Crys- 
tal was  a  creature  of  tempestuous  moods ;  alternately 
optimist  and  pessimist,  but  always  extreme;  either  tri- 
umphantly gay  or  despairingly  miserable.  That  there 
was  a  physiological  reason  for  this,  Dorothy  was  too 
young  and  inexperienced  to  know,  or  even  to  surmise. 
She  had  assigned  these  humours  to  a  certain  inherent 
strain  of  wildness,  bordering,  in  moments  of  stress, 
upon  actual  insanity.  Now  the  true  cause  was  revealed 
with  appalling  suddenness. 

Dorothy  never  visited  Crystal  in  the  morning,  which 
is  a  short  cut  to  the  conclusion  that  they  knew,  each, 
the  half  of  the  other,  for  the  afternoon  girl  may  be — 
and  generally  is — an  entirely  different  person  from  the 
early  morning  girl.  Upon  this  particular  occasion 
Dorothy  was  obliged  to  call  upon  Crystal  at  nine:  an 
hour  when  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road  presents  its  most 
slovenly  and  out-of-elbows  appearance.  The  landlady 
herself  answered  Dorothy's  ring  at  the  bell,  and  said 
tartly  that  her  lodger  was  not  up  yet.  A  question  or 
two  revealed  the  fact  that  Crystal  had  eaten  no  break- 
fast, and  was  feeling  "  very  low." 

"Do  you  know  what  causes  this  depression?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  replied  the  landlady. 

"  I  shall  go  up,"  said  Dorothy. 

The  woman  eyed  her  with  wrinkled  irritability ;  then 
in  a  softer  voice  she  muttered: 

"  I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  you,  miss." 

Dorothy  went  upstairs. 


62  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Crystal,  half-clothed,  was  lying  upon  the  bed,  white 
and  listless.  But  the  sight  of  her  spick  and  span 
visitor  roused  her.  She  sat  up,  trembling. 

"  Why  have  you  come  spying  here?  " 

"  Spying?  » 

"  The  door  was  open ;  I  heard  you  ask  that  woman 
what  was  the  matter." 

"  If  anything  is  the  matter,  won't  you  let  me  help 
you  ?  " 

"You?" 

She  began  to  laugh. 

"  Stop  that ; "  said  Dorothy,  with  something  of  her 
father's  authority ;  then,  emboldened  by  the  effect  of 
her  words,  she  added  sharply :  "  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Tell  me  at  once." 

At  these  peremptory  words  Crystal  opened  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  parted,  while  a  wave  of  colour  rushed  into 
her  pale  cheeks.  Then  she  smiled  slowly,  with  a  subtle 
expression,  compounded — so  it  seemed  to  Dorothy — 
of  triumph,  derision,  and  distress. 

"  All  right.  Only  you  must  swear  that  you  won't 
tell  Dick.  Swear !  " 

"  I  swear." 

"  Bend  down  your  head.     I'll  whisper  it." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Dorothy  faintly,  when  the  other  had 
whispered  half  a  dozen  words.  She  shrank  back  from 
the  bed,  the  colour  ebbing  and  flowing  in  her  cheeks 
also,  her  eyes  dilating. 

"  Thought  you'd  squeal,"  said  Crystal  contemptu- 
ously. "  Now,  you  can  go." 

Dorothy   sat   down,   struggling   with  her   feelings. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  6& 

Civil  war  was  raging  in  both  head  and  heart.  Crystal 
watched  her  through  half-closed  lids,  the  same  smile 
upon  her  lips.  Presently  Dorothy  controlled  herself 
sufficiently  to  say :  "  You  knew  of  this  when  you  first 
came  to  me?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  why  you  wanted  to,  to " 

"  To  kill  myself  and  it— yes." 

"  And  you  never  told  Dick?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  till  after  he'd  left  me." 

An  interminable,  unendurable  silence  followed. 
Finally  pity  drove  everything  else  out  of  Dorothy's 
heart.  With  her  imagination  she  was  able  to  sup- 
ply details:  the  shock  of  surprise,  the  horror,  the 
anguish,  the  madness.  She  tried  to  see  herself  in  a  like 
position,  she  tried  to  picture  (and  failed)  her  cousin. 
Amy,  Moira  Curragh,  other  girls  of  her  own  age,  who 
had  been  delicately  and  tenderly  nurtured  from  the 
hour  each  was  born.  Why,  between  human  beings, 
should  such  an  abysmal  gulf  have  been  fixed?  Across 
an  ocean  of  innumerable  differences  of  convention,  as- 
sociation, environment,  Dorothy  gazed  upon  the  woman 
who  was  destined  to  be  the  mother  of  Dick's  child. 

Hours  seemed  to  have  passed,  when  she  stammered 
out :  "  You  must  let  Dick  know." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Crystal ;  "  I'm  not  quite  such  a  fool 
as  that.  You  seem  to  know  a  fat  lot  about  men." 

The  sneer  hardly  touched  Dorothy,  although  the 
fact  penetrated.  She  told  herself  that  her  knowledge 
of  men  was  indeed  thin.  And  yet,  surely  Dick  would 
wish  to  be  told,  would  claim  the  right  to  succour, 


64.  H  E  R     S  O  N 

would  play  his  part  (if  it  were  necessary  to  play  a 
part),  would  do  his  duty.  Something  of  this,  feebly 
expressed,  escaped  her. 

"  You  don't  think  he'd  come  back  to  me,  do  you  ? 
Not  he.  I'd  be  ashamed  of  him,  if  he  did.  But  when 
he  does  come  back  I  shall  be  all  right  again  and  playing 
leading  parts." 

Her  pride  rang  out  unmistakably,  the  pride  of  the 
actress.  Then,  in  an  entirely  different  tone,  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Now,  you  see  why  I've  screwed  every 
ha'penny  out  of  you  I  could  get,  why  I  made  you 
promise  not  to  write  to  him — and  I  knew  you  were  the 
sort  to  keep  the  promise.  If  he'd  married  you,  I  would 
have  killed  myself.  But  when  he  comes  back  to  find  me 

where  I  ought  to  be,  why  then But  I  won't  rub  it 

in.  Lord !  what  a  beast  you  must  think  me.  For  you're 
a  real  good  sort.  When  I'm  not  hating  you,  I  love 
you!  If  you  were  anybody  else  I'd  worship  you,  but 
I've  had  to  fight  for  my  own  hand.  Now,  you'd  better 
get  out  of  this.  We  shan't  meet  again.  You're  too 
good  for  Dick,  or  any  other  man  I've  known.  And 
you've  saved  two  lives :  the  kid's  may  be  worth  precious 
little,  but  mine — who  knows  ?  " 

Her  voice  had  rung  changes  on  all  the  emotions. 
Pride,  scorn,  pathos,  misery,  and  at  the  end,  with  the  last 
two  words,  triumph.  Nevertheless,  Dorothy  knew  that 
the  speaker  was  weaving  ropes  out  of  sand.  If  she 
became  the  greatest  singer  and  actress  of  her  genera- 
tion, Gasgoyne  would  not  change.  He  had  never  loved 
Crystal,  he  never  would  love  her. 

"  Are  you  going?  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  65 

"  Not  till  you  tell  me  your  plans." 

"My  plans?  I've  money  put  by,  thanks  to  you. 
I'm  all  right:  strong  and  hopeful.  It's  only  in 
the  mornings  and  when  I'm  overtired  at  rehearsals 
that  I  get  blue.  To-day  I  was  miserable.  I  lay  here 
feeling  horrid,  and  thinking  that  I'd  lose  my  billet, 
lose  my  looks,  lose  everything.  See?  " 

"  I  see.     But  you're  better  already." 

"  I'm  quite  myself.  I  shall  enjoy  my  breakfast. 
I  have  treated  you  vilely,  but  even  that  can't  take 
away  my  appetite.  Hit  me  if  you  like.  I  won't  hit 
back.  Only,  for  God's  sake,  say  something — anything." 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  say  *  Good-bye  ' ?  " 

"  You  make  me  feel  a  worm."  She  writhed  in  the 
bed,  unable  to  bear  the  forgiveness  and  pity  in  Doro- 
thy's eyes. 

"  Before  I  go,  tell  me  when  you're  expecting 

"Oh,  about  the  beginning  of  January.     Why?" 

"  I  shall  come  to  you,  if  you  will  have  me?  " 

"You?" 

"  Yes.  You  must  have  somebody.  I  should  like  to 
come." 

**  To  see  me  suffer?  No,  no,  I  don't  mean  that,  Miss 
Fairfax.  That  is  the  nastiest  thing  I  ever  said.  I 
take  it  back.  Come  to  me,  will  you?  Well,  look 
here.  I  don't  want  to  see  you  ever  again.  I  shall  see 
your  face,  as  I  see  it  now,  as  long  as  I  live;  it'll  haunt 
me ;  yes,  it  will.  But  I  hold  you  to  your  bargain.  For 
one  year,  as  long  as  I  keep  myself  decent,  you  won't 
marry  Dick,  and  you  won't  write  to  him  or  see  him?  " 

"  That  is  understood,"   said  Dorothy   coldly.      She 


66  H  E  R     S  O  N 

turned  to  leave  the  room,  glad  to  think  that  she  would 
never  enter  it  again ;  and  yet,  in  some  strange  way, 
sorry  for  its  inmate,  who  lived  not  in  it  at  all,  but 
in  some  enchanted  palace  of  her  imagination  built  of 
nothing  more  substantial  than  a  fond  woman's  hopes. 

"  Yes,  you'll  stick  to  that,  I  know." 

She  spoke  admiringly,  but  grudgingly,  possibly  con- 
trasting her  own  code  of  honour  with  Dorothy's. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Dorothy  gently.  She  came  back 
to  the  bed  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  Remember,  Crys- 
tal, if  you  should  want  me,  I'll  come." 

"Why  should  I  want  you?" 

"  I  daresay  you'll  get  along  capitally  without  me. 
Indeed,  I'm  sure  you  will." 

"  That's  not  true.  At  this  moment  you're  sorrier  for 
me  than  ever  and  why  ?  "  She  asked  the  question  fiercely, 
"  I  shall  be  all  right.  I  know  of  a  sort  of  home  in 
France.  I'm  all  right."  She  repeated  the  word,  as  if 
she  were  trying  desperately  to  convince  herself  rather 
than  the  other  who  said  nothing.  "  And  I've  plenty 
of  pluck,  too.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  f unker  ?  "  In 
her  large  eyes  Dorothy  saw  fear,  but  she  answered 
hopefully : 

"  You  have  splendid  health.  Why  should  you  be 
afraid?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid.  I  can  hold  my  own  with  any  woman, 
and  I  shall,  too." 

"  Of  course." 

"  There's  no  '  of  course '  about  it.  Some  girls 
would  be  terrified,  miserable,  broken-hearted.  I'm  not 
that  kind,  even  if  I  did  play  the  baby  this  morning." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  67 

The  tears  stood  in  Dorothy's  eyes,  but  she  held 
them  back.  In  silence  she  stretched  out  her  hand.  To 
her  amazement,  the  strange  creature  in  the  bed  seized 
it,  kissed  it,  held  it  to  her  bosom,  and  then  flung  it  away 
with  a  laugh. 

"  If  I  hadn't  kissed  it,  I  should  have  bitten  it," 
she  declared.  "  I  do  hate  you  worse  than  ever,  be- 
cause you  make  me  feel  such  a  beast." 

For  answer  Dorothy  bent  down. 

"  You  don't  hate  me,"  she  whispered,  "  and  you're 
not  a  beast.  I  admire  you,  because  I  know  how  you 
feel,  exactly.  You  can't  deceive  me,  Crystal,  but  it 
is  plucky  indeed  of  you  to  try.  I  go  now  only  because 
you  send  me  away.  When  you  want  me,  I  shall  come 
back.  Perhaps  you  will  write,  and  let  me  know  how 
you  get  on  in  the  new  company.  I  shall  write  to  you. 
Crystal,  you  have  taught  me  more  than  I  ever  knew 
before." 

With  that  she  kissed  her. 

"  It  isn't  much  wonder  Dick  left  me  for  you,"  Crys- 
tal sobbed.  "  Well,  you've  downed  me.  I  swore  you 
shouldn't,  but  you  have." 


CHAPTER   V 

DOROTHY  let  the  Doll's  House  for  a  year,  and  spent 
the  next  few  months  in  Hampshire.  Solomon  and  Susan 
Judkins  kept  her  company,  not  to  mention  certain  fam- 
ous authors  and  composers,  both  French  and  English. 
Afterwards,  Dorothy  spoke  of  this  period  as  a  rest 
cure.  Perhaps  she  was  affected  by  the  sylvan  atmos- 
phere. The  soft,  languorous  air,  the  placid  trees,  the 
silence,  the  faces  of  the  peasants — these  cast  a  spell  upon 
a  tired,  perplexed  brain.  "  Poppy  and  mandragora  " 
grew  in  this  new  forest  which  is  so  old.  And  here 
autumn  possesses  a  peculiar  charm.  All  things  seem 
to  be  enveloped  in  a  golden  haze.  The  year  grows  old 
beautifully,  without  heartbreaking  evidence  of  pain  and 
decay.  It  does  not  die;  it  falls  asleep.  Even  Solomon, 
that  epitome  of  superabundant  energy,  was  content  to 
lie  by  his  mistress's  side,  blinking  in  the  mellow  sunshine, 
content  to  let  the  serene  hours  glide  past. 

Each  day,  however,  this  tranquil  existence  suffered 
an  intermittence  of  disturbance.  Letters  came  to  Dor- 
othy. It  is  significant  that  Solomon  barked  at  the 
postman  and,  upon  one  never-to-be-forgotten  occasion, 
pinched  his  leg.  One  letter  carried  an  outlandish  stamp, 
and  was  addressed  "  Professor  Solomon,  care  of  Miss 
Fairfax." 

Dorothy  knew  that  Gasgoyne  had  written  it. 

"  Shall  I  burn  it,  Solomon?  " 

68 


H  E  R     S  O  N  69 

Solomon  protested  against  this.  He  detested  let- 
ters, but  there  were  exceptions.  He  would  be  very 
glad  to  hear  what  his  friend,  Dick  Gasgoyne,  had 
to  say. 

"  But,  Solomon,  you  know  that  I  ought  not  to  read 
this." 

Solomon  sat  up,  put  his  head  on  one  side,  and  winked 
his  eye.  He  was  not  a  good  person  according  to 
Helmingham  authority. 

"  Oh,  Solomon,  how  can  you?  " 

Solomon  winked  again.  He  knew,  none  better,  the 
value  of  judicious  silence. 

"  Solomon,  I  must  read  this  letter  to  you.  Oh,  how, 
wicked  we  all  are !  " 

"  Wouf-f-f !  "  said  Solomon,  in  profound  disgust. 
Then,  as  Dorothy,  violently  blushing,  broke  the  seal, 
he  scampered  round  her,  barking  joyously.  Having 
done  this,  he  sat  up  again,  with  his  head  attentively 
inclined,  and  a  diabolical  grin  upon  his  naughty  face. 

"  Dear  Solomon,"  Gasgoyne  wrote.  "  I  have  heard 
from  Lady  Curragh,  so  I  send  you  through  her  this 
line  to  say  that  I'm  very  fit.  Solomon,  I  know  you  know 
that  I've  been  a  fool,  and  loyal  as  you  are  to  Dorothy 
I  am  sure  in  your  heart  you  put  her  down  as  not  nearly 
so  wise  as  she  ought  to  be,  after  having  lived  so  long 
with  you.  ..." 

"  Good  gracious ! "  said  Dorothy,  breaking  off,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  acute  distress,  "  I  ought  not 
to  go  on.  You  know  I  ought  to  stop.  I  thought  this 


70  H  E  R     S  O  N 

was  just  a  message  to  you,  Solomon,  that  Dick  would 
tell  you  how  he  was,  but  this " 

Solomon  growled.  If  ever  a  tyke  displayed  intense 
irritability,  he  did.  The  scorn  in  his  eye  was  terrible 
to  behold.  He  held  that  it  was  better  to  do  the  wrong 
thing  the  right  way,  than  the  right  thing  the  wrong 
way.  Having  opened  the  letter,  having  read  half  of 
it,  who  but  a  woman  with  an  absurd  conscience  would 
halt  and  stammer  and  blush  and  waste  valuable  time? 

"Wouf-f-f!"  he  snorted. 

"  Solomon,  you  are  a  devil." 

He  grinned  more  impudently  than  ever.  He  knew 
that  if  he  ran  out  of  sight,  she  would  kiss  the  letter. 
Dorothy  sighed  deeply,  struggled  against  the  flood  of 
temptation,  and  then  sank. 

**  Dear  old  Solomon,"  Dick  continued,  "  I'm  not 
the  sort  to  whine  about  past  blunders,  but  you  must 
tell  Dorothy  that  a  promise  wrung  from  another  at 
the  point  of  the  sword  is  no  promise  at  all.  I  simply 
can't  stand  her  silence  any  longer.  You  must  per- 
suade her  to  write  to  me  so  that  I  shall  get  the  letter 
the  first  thing  on  my  return  to  Sierra  Leone.  If  she 
does  not  write  I  shall  believe  that  she  has  not  really 
forgiven  me.  ..." 

"  Oh,  oh ! "  murmured  Dorothy,  breaking  down. 
"  How  cruel  of  him  to  say  that." 

Solomon  licked  her  hand  in  sympathy,  but  his  eyes 
sparkled.  Every  individual  hair  upon  his  head  quiv- 
ered with  excitement.  Would  Dorothy  write? 


H  E  R     S  O  N  71 

For  two  days  after  this,  the  quiet  glades,  the  silent 
trees,  the  kindly  faces  of  the  peasants  seemed  to  mock 
her.  But  she  did  not  write  to  Gasgoyne.  Or  rather, 
she  did  write  in  a  moment  of  black  despair,  and  then, 
in  reaction,  destroyed  the  letter.  How  often,  in  the 
years  to  come,  she  speculated  upon  what  would  have 
happened  if  that  letter  had  been  despatched! 

Meantime,  she  had  heard  twice  from  Crystal,  who 
had  had  a  stroke  of  luck.  Her  salary  was  raised ;  the 
manager  spoke  of  a  permanent  engagement  in  town. 

Between  the  lines  of  this,  Dorothy  read  emotions 
other  than  those  of  jubilation.  The  time  was  rapidly 
approaching  when  Crystal  must  leave  the  company  and 
sit  down  alone,  without  occupation  or  distraction,  to 
wait  for  her  trouble.  This  thought  also  darkened 
Dorothy's  horizon,  and  cast  shadows  across  the  pleasant 
paths  down  which  she  strolled. 

But  in  her  heart,  notwithstanding  what  had  passed, 
dwelt  faith  and  hope  in  the  future.  Dick  would  soon 
come  back  to  her.  Meantime,  she  gave  herself  up  to 
her  music  and  books  and  to  the  sweet  relaxation  of  the 
dream-life  wherein  she  found  happiness  and  repose. 

"  Dick  will  have  so  much  to  tell  us,"  she  confided  to 
Solomon ;  "  we  must  have  something  to  tell  him." 

At  this  Solomon  looked  rather  solemn.  He  knew  his 
own  sex,  and  the  knowledge  worried  him.  Dick  had 
said  that  he  couldn't  stand  silence.  And  Solomon  knew 
Dick's  weakness,  the  weakness  of  so  many  strong  men, 
who  have  been  as  wax  in  the  hands  of  beautiful  women. 
If  Dick,  athirst  for  kind  words,  found  them  upon  other 
lips,  what  then?  Solomon  growled  to  himself,  and 


72  H  E  R     S  0  N 

Dorothy,  hearing  him,  supposed  he  was  suffering  from 
bad  dreams.  But  Solomon  was  wide  awake,  and,  for 
the  moment,  as  unhappy  a  tyke  as  could  be  found  in 
the  kingdom. 

In  the  middle  of  December  a  telegram  came  from 
Crystal  at  Saint  Malo. 

"  I  am  desperately  ill ;  please  come  to  me." 

Dorothy  started  alone  within  a  couple  of  hours. 

She  crossed  to  Saint  Malo  from  Southampton  in  a 
storm.  All  night  long  the  vessel  struggled  gallantly 
against  winds  and  roaring  waves.  To  sleep  in  such 
an  inferno  was  out  of  the  question.  Dorothy  wedged 
herself  into  her  berth  with  pillows,  and,  like  the  apostle, 
waited  for  the  day.  She  was  an  excellent  sailor,  and 
the  terrible  pitching  and  tossing  affected  her  spirit 
only.  She  became  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  Crystal 
was  battling  for  her  life,  even  as  the  ship  battled  with 
the  waves  and  wind.  Every  groan  from  the  stout 
oak  timbers  seemed  to  come  from  Crystal,  the  quiver- 
ing of  the  vessel  under  the  shock  of  tons  of  water  fall- 
ing upon  her  decks,  the  convulsive  spasm  with  which 
she  righted  herself  after  each  attack,  the  odd  inter- 
mittences  of  silence  and  tranquillity  always  so  impres- 
sive when  a  tempest  is  raging — these  things  made  her 
shudder  with  apprehension.  After  passing  the  Channel 
Islands,  wind  and  water  abated  its  violence.  Dorothy 
went  on  deck.  The  sky,  in  the  early  morning's  light, 
was  almost  black  and  amber,  the  land  of  a  pale  green- 
grey,  as  if  the  storm  had  washed  all  colour  out  of  the 


H  E  R     S  O  N  73 

Cote  d'^meraude.  Then  came  the  tedious  delay  in 
docking,  the  passage  through  the  Custom  House,  and 
at  last  release  from  bondage. 

Nine  o'clock  was  striking  as  Dorothy  drove  to  the 
address  that  had  been  written  upon  the  telegram.  A 
religieuse  opened  the  door. 

"  Is  she  better  ?  "  faltered  Dorothy. 

"  She  is  very  ill,  dying,  I  think,"  said  the  Sister. 
Then  she  added  calmly,  as  if  preoccupied  with  thoughts 
concerning  the  life  beyond :  "  All  the  same  the  doctor 
who  is  here  does  not  yet  despair." 

The  doctor,  a  prim,  precise,  spectacled  little  man, 
received  Dorothy  in  a  dismal  conventional  salon.  A 
gesture  of  his  plump  white  hands  conveyed  the  assurance 
that  all  that  was  possible  had  been  done. 

"  She  is  unconscious,"  he  added. 

"And  the  child?" 

The  doctor's  face  brightened.  The  baby  was  alive 
and  a  really  splendid  little  fellow.  Unhappily,  the 
mother  from  the  first  had  taken  no  interest  in  him. 

"  Can  I  go  to  her?  "  Dorothy  asked. 

The  little  man  led  the  way  upstairs  into  a  not  un- 
comfortable bedroom,  overlooking  the  harbour,  now 
filled  with  the  big  fishing  boats  that  sail  in  February 
to  Newfoundland  and  Iceland. 

"  I  will  return  presently,"  whispered  the  doctor. 
"  Sister  Claire  has  my  instructions." 

Dorothy  saw  the  Sister  half  effaced  by  a  curtain,  sit- 
ting by  the  window.  Her  lips  were  moving,  repeating 
some  office  of  the  Church.  Dorothy  crossed  to  the 
white  bed,  upon  which  Crystal  lay  with  her  eyes  closed, 


74  H  E  R     S  O  N 

apparently  fast  asleep.  A  faint  smile  seemed  to  rest 
upon  the  lips ;  her  hair,  twisted  into  a  great  braid, 
showed  golden  tints  against  the  dead  white  of  the  night- 
dress ;  the  thick  curling  lashes  gleamed  upon  her  cheek ; 
from  her  folded  hands  came  a  flash  of  metal.  Dorothy 
saw  that  she  wore  a  wedding  ring. 

"  Oh !  you  poor  thing !  "  she  reflected. 

Her  first  feeling,  or  shall  we  say  the  first  conscious 
and  memorable  reflection  was  one  of  wonder  and  in- 
credulity that  Crystal  should  be  dying.  Dorothy  could 
see  her  dancing  at  the  Levity,  the  symbol  of  life, 
colour,  movement — and  now  sinking  to  rest  for  ever." 

And  with  her  would  perish  those  airy  sprits  of  hope 
and  fancy,  those  innumerable  ambitions  to  rise  in  her 
"  profesh,"  to  outshine  other  fixed  stars,  to  play  her 
part  as  mime  and  dancer  with  such  art  that  he  who 
had  never  truly  loved  her  might  fall  at  her  feet,  daz- 
zled, conquered. 

Dorothy  knelt  down  beside  the  bed.  The  pathos  of 
what  had  been,  its  inevitableness,  its  irony,  its  effect 
upon  her  own  life  overpowered  her.  Crystal  lay  upon 
that  poor  bed  the  type  of  a  million  unfortunate  women 
whose  sins  may  be  forgiven  because  they  have  loved 
much.  By  the  grace  of  God  Dorothy  herself  had  been 
protected  from  such  a  fate.  But  she  knew,  in  all 
humility,  that,  stripped  of  a  tender  and  inspiring  up- 
bringing, without  a  wise  father's  love,  without  the  min- 
istrations of  faithful  servants  and  teachers,  lacking 
the  example  of  worthy  friends,  she,  too,  might  have 
been  as  Crystal  Wride.  And  her  tears  flowed  for  the 


H  E  R     S  O  N  75 

innumerable  girls,  like  Crystal,  alone  and  adrift  upon 
wild  waters. 

Presently  she  was  able  to  pray  for  the  repose  of 
this  passing  soul.  Prayer  brought  peace:  the  convic- 
tion that  it  was  well  with  the  sinner,  that  suffering  had 
purged  her,  that  a  greater  suffering  than  any  fleshly 
anguish,  the  agony  of  disappointment,  had  been  merci- 
fully withheld.  Then,  rising  from  her  knees,  she  gazed 
upon  the  face  from  which  she  had  shrunk  at  first  in 
loathing,  to  which  she  had  turned  in  pity,  the  face  which 
at  last  she  had  kissed.  What  strange  bond  had  linked 
them  together?  What  power  had  been  thus  triumphant 
in  destroying  seemingly  indestructible  barriers? 

At  this  moment  it  seemed  to  Dorothy  that  what 
true  knowledge  of  her  fellow-creatures  might  be  hers, 
she  owed  to  Crystal  Wride,  who  had  torn  a  film  from 
her  eyes.  The  laceration  had  not  yet  healed ;  she  saw- 
dimly  still,  but  she  saw;  and  she  knew  that  if  Crystal 
had  not  come  into  her  life,  she  might  have  remained 
blind  to  the  end  of  her  days. 

As  she  gazed  at  that  still  white  face  the  eyes  opened. 

"  I  have  come  to  you,"  said  Dorothy. 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  the  forehead,  now  slightly 
wrinkled  with  interrogation.  She  felt  sure  that  Crystal 
recognised  her,  but  her  white  lips  remained  closed.  At 
that  moment  Dorothy  heard  a  faint  cry:  the  unmis- 
takable wail  of  a  new-born  infant.  The  cry  rose  in  a 
piteous  crescendo  and  died  away.  It  seemed  to  Dorothy 
that  the  child  was  calling  the  mother  back  from  the 
other  world,  proclaiming  with  its  puny  voice  the  in- 


76  H  E  R     S  O  N 

contestable  rights  of  the  living  paramount  over  those 
of  Death. 

Dorothy  said  eagerly: 

"  Crystal,  you  must  live,  do  you  hear  me?  Your 
baby  wants  you." 

The  white  lips  trembled  and  moved.  Dorothy  caught 
a  faint  whisper. 

"It  is  not  dead  then?" 

Before  she  answered  a  derisive  smile  flickered  across 
Crystal's  face  and  vanished.  Dorothy  knew  then,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time,  that  the  child  had  quickened  no 
love  in  the  mother's  heart.  And  she  knew  also  that 
Crystal,  with  her  amazingly  acute  perceptions,  had  di- 
vined this,  before  the  words  "Ain't  I  a  beast?"  fell 
haltingly  on  the  silence. 

Meantime,  Sister  Claire  had  risen  from  her  chair  and, 
hearing  Crystal's  voice,  crossed  to  the  bed  and  laid  a 
finger  upon  her  patient's  wrist.  Dorothy,  watching  the 
placid,  pleasant  face,  saw  a  dawning  hope  illuminating 
the  smooth,  colourless  skin.  She  nodded  to  Dorothy 
and  with  a  polite  gesture  invited  rather  than  com- 
manded her  to  leave  the  room. 

Before  twenty-four  hours  more  had  passed,  the  doc- 
tor spoke  guardedly  of  a  possible  recovery. 

"  She  was  sinking ;  and  you  aroused  her.  It  is — 
extraordinary,  but  I  have  seen  it  happen  again  and 
again  in  such  cases." 

Then  with  Gallic  fluency  tempered  by  the  constraint 
of  a  bachelor  talking  to  a  young  English  '  Mees,'  he 
continued : 

"  It  is  odd — is  it  not? — but  Madame  takes  no  interest 


H  E  R     S  O  N  77 

whatever  in  the  child:  and  such  a  child — superb.  I 
have  made  arrangements  with  an  excellent  creature  from 
Dinan,  who  arrives  to-morrow." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorothy.  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  with  a  faint  blush  which  the  French- 
man quite  misinterpreted,  she  added :  "  The  father,  who 
is  a  friend  of  mine  and  in  Africa,  would  wish  all  that 
is  possible  to  be  done." 

The  excellent  creature,  a-flutter  with  ribands  and 
beaming  with  smiles,  duly  arrived  and  declared  instantly 
that  the  baby  was  adorable.  From  that  moment  the 
fretful  cries  ceased.  Dorothy  told  herself  that  from 
the  baby's  point  of  view  all  was  well  for  the  next  feTf 
months. 

Satisfied  that  Dick's  child  was  properly  cared  for, 
Dorothy  confined  her  ministrations  to  the  mother,  whose 
strength  returned  almost  as  rapidly  as  it  had  left  her. 

"  You  saved  my  life,"  said  Crystal. 

"  That  is  really  nonsense." 

"  It's  the  truth.  You  looked  at  me  as  if  you  thought 
I  was  dying,  and  that  made  me  want  to  live." 

During  the  first  days  of  recovery,  Dorothy,  obeying 
the  doctor's  instructions,  made  no  mention  of  the  child. 

"  It  is  my  good  fortune  to  understand  what  is  left 
unsaid,"  he  explained  to  Dorothy,  whom  from  the  first 
he  treated  with  almost  exaggerated  respect.  "  This 
little  one  was  not  exactly  welcome,  hein?  That  jumps 
to  the  eye.  And  Madame  is  an  artiste.  She  told  me  so, 
but — name  of  a  name! — I  knew  that  when  I  saw  her. 
The  type  is  unmistakable.  Well,  talk  to  her  of  her  art, 
of  future  triumphs — hein?  But  leave  the  little  one  in 


78  H  E  R     S  O  N 

the  arms  of  the  nourrice,  where  he  is  absolutely  at 
home." 

Finally,  Crystal  herself  spoke  of  plans  for  the  baby's 
future. 

"  I  shall  leave  him  in  France,"  she  declared,  not  with- 
out an  inflection  of  defiance.  "  How  can  I  possibly 
take  him  back  to  England?  I  have  a  good  engagement. 
I  am  going  to  play  a  very  minor  part,  but  I  understudy 
Miss  Gwendolen  Bostock,  and  she  has  something  wrong 
with  her  throat.  My  great  chance  is  coming.  Heard 
anything  from  Dick?  " 

Dorothy  wondered  whether  she  betrayed  any  con- 
fusion as  she  answered  quietly :  "  He  wrote  to  a  friend 
from  Sierra  Leone.  He  was  quite  well  and  in  high 
spirits.  We  shall  hear  nothing  for  six  months." 

"  A  lot  may  happen  in  six  months,"  said  Crystal. 

Ultimately,  the  child  was  left  in  his  foster-mother's 
charge.  But  it  was  Dorothy,  not  Crystal,  who  paid 
a  visit  to  Dinan,  and  satisfied  herself  that  the  small 
farm  was  situated  upon  a  breezy  hill  top,  and  that  the 
other  children  scampering  about  were  models  of  health 
and  strength.  And  after  Crystal  had  returned  to  the 
stage,  Dorothy  spent  several  weeks  at  Dinan,  sketch- 
ing and  botanising,  so  she  said,  but  the  good  people 
at  the  farm  might  have  accounted  otherwise  for  her 
expenditure  of  time. 

Susan  Judkins,  who,  with  Solomon,  crossed  the  chan- 
nel, protested  vehemently;  being  of  the  opinion  that 
her  young  mistress  had  behaved  indiscreetly  and  also 
foolishly. 

"  I've  nothing  against  your  going  to  see  the  baby, 


H  E  R     S  O  N  79 

Miss  Dorothy ;  but  it's  this  hole-in-the-corner  way  of 
doing  it  that  upsets  me.  Not  a  word  to  her  ladyship 
or  anybody  else,  and  me  sworn  to  'old  my  tongue,  not 
that  I  ever  was  a  tattler.  Already,  some  hateful  folk 
is  saying  it's  yours." 

"  Rubbish ! "  said  Dorothy,  with  her  chin  in  the  air. 
But  in  a  softer  tone,  she  explained :  "  You  know,  Susan, 
I  am  thinking  of  Mr.  Dick's  good  name.  If  I  told  my 
own  people  anything,  I  should  have  to  tell  them  every- 
thing ;  and  he  is  so  far  away,  unable  to  defend  himself.'* 

"  Let's  hope  he'll  be  back  soon,"  said  Susan  grimly. 

An  incident  followed  that  more  than  justified  Susan's 
protest.  Dorothy  was  stopping  en  pension  at  the  Hotel 
Victoria  in  Dinan,  that  pleasant  inn  facing  the  Place 
Bertrand  du  Guesclin.  One  day  a  party  arrived  from 
Dinard ;  some  fashionable  folk  quite  indifferent  to  the 
glories  of  Gothic  architecture,  but  with  appetites  in- 
ordinately whetted  for  gossip.  Amongst  them  was  a 
certain  Mrs.  Pilkington-Browne,  who  had  known  Dor- 
othy slightly  both  in  East  Anglia  and  Portman  Square. 
This  lady  greeted  Dorothy  with  effusion  at  dejeuner* 
but,  later,  when  Dorothy  happened  to  be  talking  to 
Miss  Pilkington-Browne,  a  prim,  pretty  little  girl  of 
sixteen,  the  mother  beckoned  her  away,  and  later,  on 
departure,  took  leave  of  Dorothy  with  almost  insolent 
words  and  manner. 

"  You  know,  my  dear  Miss  Fairfax,  now  that  the 
season  is  beginning  you  will  find  more  Britons  than 
Bretons  in  this  part  of  the  world.  Good-bye.  So  glad 
to  have  had  this  glimpse  of  you.  We  have  all  wondered 
what  on  earth  had  become  of  you." 


80  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Afterwards  Dorothy  knew  that  she  ought  to  have 
seized  this  opportunity.  Mrs.  Pilkington-Browne  was 
not  a  particularly  ill-natured  woman,  and,  taken  into 
confidence,  she  would  probably  have  held  her  tongue, 
and,  perhaps,  if  necessary,  championed  an  indiscreet 
young  woman  against  the  inevitable  consequences  of 
her  indiscretion. 

However,  she  left  Dinan,  and  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Paimpol.  Pierre  Loti's  enchanting  story  Pecheur  d* 
Islande  had  just  appeared,  and  Dorothy  read  every  line 
of  it  again  and  again  with  sensibilities  quickened  to  the 
most  intense  sympathy  and  pity.  Gaud  had  waited  for 
Yann,  as  she  was  waiting  for  Dick — and  Yann  had  not 
come  back ! 

Under  the  mysterious  spell  of  the  country,  she  at- 
tended certain  Pardons,  and  in  particular  the  one  of 
Our  Lady  of  Good  News,  to  which  flock  the  mothers 
and  maids  whose  sons  and  lovers  are  far  away.  Dorothy 
talked  to  many  of  the  women,  many  of  whom  had 
waited,  as  Gaud  waited,  had  watched  through  long 
autumn  days  for  the  distant  sail  upon  the  horizon  which 
never  fluttered  into  sight. 

"  So  many  do  not  come  back,"  sighed  one  girl.  "  It 
is  the  will  of  God,  Mademoiselle,  but,  oh!  it  is  hard  on 
us  women." 

She  wandered  into  some  of  the  cemeteries ;  irresist- 
ibly attracted  to  those  rude  wooden  crosses  with  the 
roughly  carved  inscription :  "  Lost  at  Sea." 

Meantime,  the  English  press  began  to  hint  that 
Richard  Gasgoyne  would  never  be  seen  again  in  Fleet 
Street.  Nor  was  this  a  matter  of  mere  surmise.  One 


H  E  R     S  O  N  81 

or  two  natives  returned  to  Sierra  Leone  to  tell  a  shock- 
ing story  of  suffering  and  hardship  ending  with  an 
attack  by  a  savage  tribe.  Nevertheless,  Dorothy  told 
Susan  that  Dick  was  alive ;  and — Susan,  let  it  be  added* 
partly  out  of  pity,  partly  from  faith  in  youth  and 
strength,  fortified  her  mistress's  conviction. 

"  Mr.  Dick  '11  take  a  lot  of  killing,"  she  declared. 

Finally,  a  long  letter  arrived  from  Crystal ;  curiously 
compounded  of  triumph,  misery,  and  self-justification* 
Miss  Gwendolen  Bostock,  it  appeared,  had  lost  her  voice 
and  her  position  as  leading  lady.  Crystal,  suddenly 
called  upon  to  perform  a  great  part,  played  it  with 
such  fire  and  cleverness  that  the  management  had  se- 
cured her  services  at  a  large  salary.  Clippings  were 
enclosed,  none  too  clean,  to  be  returned — so  ran  an  un- 
derlined postscript — when  read.  The  rest,  of  the  letter 
must  be  given  in  its  entirety,  merely  mending  some  of 
the  spelling. 

"  Dick  is  dead.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that.  It 
nearly  killed  me,  but  I  went  on  acting  all  the  same;. 
And  I  never  played  so  well  in  my  life  either.  Everybody 
said  so.  Even  the  women  in  the  stalls,  whose  complex- 
ions won't  stand  that  sort  of  thing,  howled  over  some 
of  my  pathetic  lines.  ..." 

Dorothy  laid  down  the  letter  for  a  moment.  Owen 
Meredith's  words  had  come  into  her  head. 

"  Using  the  past  to  give  pathos 
To  the  little  new  song  that  she  sings." 

When  she  picked  up  the  letter  it  was  with  a  conviction 
that  to  Crystal,  at  any  rate,  the  death  of  Dick  was  a. 


82  H  E  R     S  O  N 

lesser  thing  than  the  triumph  of  making  fashionable 
ladies  howl ! 

"  And  now  "  (continued  Crystal),  "  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  that  I've  made  arrangements  to  place  the  baby 
in  a  sort  of  Institution  for  Little  Mistakes  near  Paris. 
I  have  paid  a  lump  sum  down,  and  the  child  will  get  a 
good  education,  and  later  I  shall  furnish  the  cash  for 
giving  him  a  proper  start.  But  he'll  never  know  I'm 
his  mother.  I'm  running  straight  and  it  pays.  And 
I  mean  my  name  to  be  as  clean  as  any  woman's  in  the 
kingdom.  I  owe  you  a  lot  for  what  you  did,  and  at 
any  time  when  you  want  stalls  for  any  show  in  which 
I'm  playing,  you  write  to  me.  ..." 

There  was  more,  not  worth  recording,  but  near  the 
lines  where  Dick's  name  occurred,  Dorothy  saw  two  tear 
marks.  Because  of  these,  she  judged  the  writer  with 
charity,  although  the  abandonment  of  the  child  filled  her 
with  resentment  and  dismay.  That  Dick's  son  should 
be  brought  up,  as  Susan  crudely  put  it,  a  fondling, 
stirred  her  to  the  marrow. 

After  two  sleepless  nights,  she  told  her  faithful  hand- 
maiden that  they  must  return  to  Dinan. 

"  Whatever  are  you  going  to  do,  Miss?  "  asked  Susan. 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  Dorothy  replied. 

At  Dinan,  the  excellent  creature,  no  longer  a-flutter 
with  ribands  and  beaming  with  smiles,  told  a  harrowing 
tale.  Acting  under  Madame's  orders,  she  had  taken  the 
adorable  little  one  to  Paris  and  left  him  there — in  prison 
(en  cellule)! 

Dorothy  with  white  cheeks  and  burning  eyes  listened 
to  details  about  the  grim,  white-washed  building,  the 


H  E  R     S  O  N  83 

austere  sisterhood,  the  bare,  rigorously-scrubbed  wards, 
the  tiny  captives  cast  up  by  an  implacable  sea,  left 
nameless  and  forlorn  to  live  under  an  iron  discipline. 

"  And,  look  you,"  sobbed  Dorothy's  informant,  "  if 
I  were  not  poor  as  a  sparrow,  if  I  had  not  so  many 
mouths  to  fill,  I  and  my  good  Alcibiade  would  adopt  the 
little  one.  Mademoiselle,  he  is  a  masterpiece!  Never, 
never,  shall  I  see  such  a  baby  again,  so  strong,  so 
beautiful ! " 

The  kind  soul  dissolved  deplorably,  murmuring  an 
apostrophe  to  her  patron  saint. 

Dorothy  tried  to  comfort  her,  kissed  her  firm  red 
cheeks,  and  exhibited  a  present;  a  rosary  of  beads 
fashioned  out  of  wood  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and 
blessed  by  a  Prince  of  the  Church  at  Sainte  Anne 
d'Auray. 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  are  an  angel.  Why,  why  did  not 
the  good  God  see  to  it  that  you  were  the  mother  of  the 
little  one?  " 

Dorothy  went  away  with  the  address  of  the  Institu- 
tion for  Little  Mistakes  in  her  pocket.  Susan  grumbled 
as  she  packed  up  that  night,  because  Dorothy  seemed  to 
be  stricken  suddenly  dumb. 

You  will  guess  the  reason  of  this.  Her  mind  was 
made  up,  and  Susan's  protests,  no  more  to  be  dammed 
than  a  river  in  spate,  would  have  been  so  exasperatingly 
futile.  They  travelled  to  Paris  the  next  day. 

Upon  the  following  afternoon  Dorothy  appeared  at 
the  small  hotel  where  she  was  staying,  with  an  expres- 
sion not  to  be  interpreted  by  Susan.  Resolution, 
obstinacy  and  triumph  illumined  the  young  lady's  face. 


84.  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me,  Miss?  " 

"  Nothing  yet,  Susan." 

"  You've  been  to  see  the  child,  of  course.  Is  he 
well?" 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  baby  in  my  life,"  Dorothy 
replied  solemnly. 

A  week  later  Susan's  curiosity  was  satisfied,  and  her 
sense  of  what  was  fitting  almost  unrecognisably  crushed. 
Dorothy  brought  home  the  masterpiece  in  a  brand  new 
perambulator ! 

"  It's  mine  now,"  she  said  calmly. 

"  Heavens  preserve  us,"  exclaimed  Susan. 

"  If  the  fittest  survive,"  said  Dorothy,  with  emphasis, 
"  this  baby  ought  to  live  forever." 

Then,  very  concisely,  for  she  had  acquired  the  habit 
of  thinking  before  she  spoke,  the  facts  were  recited. 
Dorothy  had  offered  to  adopt  and  provide  for  the  child 
upon  the  condition  that  her  name  was  kept  secret  from 
Crystal.  The  Mother  Superior  had  herself  suggested 
this  as  not  only  the  ordinary,  but  the  essentially  right 
thing  to  do. 

"  We  have  had  great  trouble,"  she  said,  with  a  world- 
embracing  gesture.  "  Mothers  permit  other  women  to 
adopt  their  babies,  and  then  later,  perhaps,  they  want 
them  back  again.  We  must  obtain  the  consent  of 
Madame  Wride,  naturally,  but  we  shall  tell  her  that  a 
lady  wishing  to  adopt  a  child  has  selected  her  baby. 
Also  you  must  satisfy  us  that  you  are  in  a  position  to 
take  care  of  the  little  one.  For  the  rest,  such  arrange- 
ments are  made  every  day.  And  we  would  prefer 
infinitely,  you  understand,  that  Madame  Wride  should 


H  E  R     S  O  N  85 

not  know  your  name.  Undoubtedly,  she  will  infer  that 
it  is  a  French  woman  and  not  a  compatriot  who  wishes 
to  adopt  the  child." 

Crystal's  consent  to  the  arrangement  came  by  return 
of  post.  One  may  guess,  perhaps,  that  the  placing  of 
Dick's  son  in  the  Institution  of  Little  Mistakes  had 
caused  the  actress  qualms  of  conscience.  Now,  appar- 
ently, he  was  to  be  brought  up  as  a  gentleman,  for  the 
Mother  Superior,  ravished  (as  she  expressed  herself) 
by  Dorothy's  face  and  French  accent,  had  spoken  en- 
thusiastically of  the  little  one's  amazing  good  fortune. 

Susan  listened  agape  with  consternation  to  this  and 
much  more.  It  was  quite  obvious  that  Dorothy  still  be- 
lieved in  Dick's  return. 

"  But  if  he  don't  come  back,  Miss  Dorothy ?  " 

"  Then  this  is  all  that  I  shall  have  left  of  the  man 
I  love." 

So  speaking,  she  kissed  the  child. 

"  You'll  write  to  'er  ladyship,"  muttered  Susan. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Well,  what's  done  is  done,"  said  Susan  desperately. 
"  But  to  stop  evil  tongues  I'm  willing  you  should  tell 
'em  that  it  belongs  to — me." 

"  Oh,  Susan !  " 

Dorothy  began  to  laugh;  the  baby  crowed  joyously. 

"  You  can  call  it  my  grandchild,"  she  said  with 
dignity.  "  These  Frenchies  can  think  what  they  like  of 
me."  " 

Accordingly,  not  even  to  Moira  Curragh  was  men- 
tion made  of  this  baby,  who  throve  apace  from  the 
beginning.  Never  was  seen  a  handsomer  boy.  He 


86  H  E  R     S  O  N 

had  come  into  this  world  by  a  bypath;  a  king's 
son,  upon  the  king's  highway,  could  not  have  been 
handsomer  or  happier  than  this  obscure,  abandoned 
creature. 

He  was  baptised>  George,  after  Dorothy's  own  father. 
His  birth  was  duly  recorded  at  Saint  Malo:  the  crude 
fact  hastily  written  down  and  forgotten  as  soon  as 
written.  The  parson  who  baptised  him,  the  doctor  who 
registered  his  birth,  both  busy,  overworked  men,  forgot 
his  existence  long  before  he  was  short-coated. 

It  is  significant  that  from  the  first  the  baby  adored 
Dorothy.  In  her  arms  he  lay  quiet,  when  in  others',  he 
howled  lustily.  When  he  could  crow,  he  crowed  always 
at  sight  of  her,  and  reached  out  white  dimpled  fists. 

If  she  struggled  against  this  never-ending  wooing, 
this  subtle  enticement,  nobody  but  herself  was  aware 
of  that  struggle.  In  the  end  the  male  triumphed. 
Dorothy  began  to  tell  herself  that  Baby  was  all  Dick, 
that  from  tip  to  toe  he  was  his  father's  son.  The 
child  clawed  at  ter  bosom  and  at  her  heart  strings. 
With  divine  audacity  he  demanded  love,  love  unstinted; 
and  the  inordinate  demand  created  the  supply.  And 
Dorothy  was  no  niggard.  When  she  gave  love  or 
friendship  she  never  measured  it. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  whispered  into  the  tiny  pink  ear. 
"  I  love  you  to  distraction." 

Solomon  gave  Susan  to  understand  that  his  nose 
was  out  of  joint.  One  day  he  found  a  white  veil  beside 
an  empty  perambulator.  He  tore  it  viciously  to  pieces ! 

This  happened  three  Months  later,  when  spring  was 
abroad  in  Brittany.  No  word  had  come  from  Dick. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  87 

Each  day,  as  the  postman  swung  into  sight  carrying  his 
stout  leather  bag,  Dorothy  would  feel  a  lump  in  her 
throat,  a  weakening  of  the  knees,  a  quiver  of  excite- 
ment. Then,  after  a  decent  interval  Susan  Judkins 
would  appear,  with  a  careless,  "  Any  news  this  morning, 
Miss  Dorothy?  "  Dorothy  would  shake  her  head;  and 
Susan  would  return  to  her  work  with  a  tightening  of 
her  thin  lips  and  the  mournful  expression  of  the  con- 
firmed pessimist. 

Three  more  months  passed;  then  a  bolt  fell.  Rich- 
ard Gasgoyne  had  perished.  A  white  man  staggered 
into  Sierra  Leone  to  die.  Before  he  died,  he  described 
the  attack  upon  the  expedition,,  the  massacre  of  his 
companions,  his  own  escape  and  subsequent  sufferings. 
There  were  paragraphs  in  the  papers:  short  obituary 
notices  of  a  young  man  of  brilliant  promise.  A  famous 
soldier  expressed  his  profound  regret ;  the  greatest  edi- 
tor in  the  world  observed  ex  cathedra  that  such  men 
as  Gasgoyne  were  scarce. 

Dorothy  collapsed  utterly.  God  had  been  too  cruel ! 
Susan,  looking  very  dour,  scowled  at  all  the  world,  es- 
pecially the  baby.  Why  had  Gasgoyne  and  his  misbe- 
gotten brat  spoiled  her  young  mistress*  life  ?  She  asked 
herself  this  question  a  score  of  times,  and  then  put  an- 
other, a  poser,  to  Dorothy. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Miss  Dorothy?" 

Poor  Dorothy,  haggard  from  loss  of  sleep,  per- 
plexed, miserable  in  mind  and  body,  answered  irritably : 
"  Of  course,  I  shall  bring  the  child  up  as  my  own." 

To  this  Susan  replied  with  one  word: 

"Lor'!" 


' 

88  HER     SON 

The  faithful  creature  had  the  wit  and  kindness  to 
perceive  that  in  Dorothy's  present  mood,  expostulation, 
however  discreetly  worded,  would  be  the  further  lacera- 
tion of  surfaces  already  cruelly  abraded.  So,  for  the 
moment,  she  held  her  tongue.  Some  five  days  later 
Moira  Curragh  rushed  down  from  Paris.  Her  aston- 
ishment and  exasperation  when  she  heard  the  truth 
from  beginning  to  end  may  be  imagined. 

"  My  poor  Doll,  you  are  crazy.  Do  you  know  what 
the  world  will  say  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  care  what  the  world  says?  " 

"  They  will  say  that  this  is  your  child,  that  Dick 
Gasgoyne — oh,  my  dear,  you  must  let  me  take  you 

in  hand.  I'm  so  glad  I  came.  If  I  had  delayed " 

she  broke  off  abruptly,  surprised  by  the  expression 
forming  itself  upon  her  friend's  face:  a  certain  rigid 
determination. 

"  The  world,  you  say,  Moira,  will  believe  that  Dick's 
son  is  mine?  " 

"Of  course " 

"  Then  I  accept  the  world's  verdict." 

"  You  are  quite  cracked." 

"  Cracked  ?  Well,  in  a  sense  I  am  cracked.  I  feel 
exactly  as  if  I  were  Dick's  widow.  Oh,  Moira,  don't 
I  read  what  is  in  your  mind?  You'd  take  me  back  to 
Paris  with  you,  cheer  me  up,  buy  me  clothes,  and  find 
me  a  good  fellow  for  a  husband.  It  is  written  on  your 
kind  face.  And  in  reply  I  can  only  say :  '  No,  thank 
you.'  Yes,  I  am  cracked,"  she  laughed  gently,  as  if 
with  a  sense  of  the  irony  of  life,  "  and  some  of  the  love 
which  makes  life  worth  living  to  women  has  leaked 


R     S  O  N  89 

out  of  me,  but  some,  remains.  And  he  loves  me.  He 
is  mine,  mine!  " 

At  these  words,  so  quickly  spoken,  Moira  Curragh, 
whom  her  enemies  stigmatised  as  a  heartless  butterfly, 
bent  her  head  and  burst  into  tears.  Dorothy  did  the 
comforting  after  all;  and  her  eyes  were  quite  dry. 
Later,  Lady  Curragh  asked  an  important  question: 

"  What  will  you  tell  your  poor  Aunt  Charlotte  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  pity  her.  Haven't  you  heard  the 
news?  Amy  is  going  to  marry  Teddy  Ipswich,  who 
will  never  give  her  a  moment's  uneasiness." 

"It?" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  asked  to  be  bridesmaid.  The  letter 
arrived  only  this  morning." 

"  He  was  devoted  to  you  once.  How  men  chop  and 
change " 

"  Some  men  do  and  many  women."  Slight  lines 
formed  themselves  about  her  mouth  and  eyes.  She  was 
wondering  whether  she  envied  Amy,  and  all  the  girls 
of  Amy's  pattern  who  are  not  capable  of  love  or  hate 
or  any  emotion  whatever  other  than  a  tepid  self- 
satisfaction.  In  quantity  and  quality  Teddy  Ipswich's 
brains  might  compare  favourably,  perhaps,  with  a 
hen's,  but  he  could  make  Amy  happy.  Beneath  his 
touch  and  the  words  "  With  all  my  worldly  goods  I 
thee  endow,"  Amy  would  purr  like  a  plump  white 

f*Q  4- 

^   i  I  L 

"  You  must  tell  your  people  something,  Dorothy." 
"  Moira,  how  understanding  of  you  to  know  I  can't 

tell  them  everything.     It  would  be  like  throwing  mud 

at  Dick's  grave." 


90  H  E  R     S  0  N 

"  Yes,  yes.  And  the  pompous  f  I  told  you  so ;  I 
•warned  you,  my  dear  Dorothy.  .  .  .'  But  still, 
something " 

"Half  the  truth— eh?  I  can  write  that  I  shall 
never  marry,  that  I  have  adopted  a  child,  that  I  pro- 
pose to  call  myself  *  Mrs.'  I  must  expect  red-hot 
letters,  but  they  will  cool  crossing  the  Channel.  It 
is  so  comforting  to  remember  that  both  Uncle  and 
Aunt  are  the  worst  sailors  in  the  world." 

Lady  Curragh  protested  eloquently  for  nearly  half 
an  hour.  At  the  end  she  said  with  exasperation : 

"  This  is  suttee.     I  wonder  you  are  not  in  weeds." 

Dorothy  was  in  white,  unrelieved  by  any  colour. 

"  I  wear  white,  not  black,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I  look 
a  fright  in  black." 

"  Oh,  ho !  "  murmured  her  friend,  reflecting  that  the 
case  was  far  from  hopeless. 

"  Baby  detests  black." 

"  You  wear  white  on  his  account?  " 

"  Moira,  let  us  talk  of  him :  it  will  do  me  good.  He 
is  such  a  darling;  and  both  Solomon  and  poor  old 
Susan  hate  him." 

Lady  Curragh  had  a  boy  of  her  own,  and  was  quite 
willing  to  talk  baby-talk.  Presently,  Susan  brought 
the  child  to  the  salon,  and  Moira  Curragh  exclaiming: 
"  Ton  my  word,  I  never  saw  such  a  baby,  never!  "  was 
repaid  for  a  long  and  dusty  railway  journey  by  the  first 
radiant  smile  she  had  seen  upon  her  friend's  face. 

"  Isn't  he?     And  now  he  is  all  mine." 

Next  day  Lady  Curragh  returned  to  Paris.  As 
the  train  bore  her  through  the  pleasant  orchards  of 


H  E  R     S  O  N  91 

France,  she  had  time  to  reflect  dispassionately  upon  what 
Dorothy  was  doing.  At  parting,  after  kissing  her 
friend,  she  had  whispered :  "  I  have  told  you  before 
that  you  are  a  heavenly  fool."  Dorothy  had  smiled, 
and  in  her  smile  lay  wisdom,  not  folly,  as  if  she  alone  of 
all  the  world  knew  that  she  had  done  well.  Moira  had 
to  admit  that  this  particular  fool  was  living  in  a  para- 
dise. From  the  windows  of  her  carriage  Moira  could 
see  a  landscape  of  delicate  shades  of  colour  which 
in  combination  produced  a  suffused  neutral  tint.  If 
there  was  no  "  wild  freshness  of  morning "  (Moira 
was  too  true  an  Irishwoman  not  to  set  an  extravagant 
value  upon  vivid  colour  and  dashing  action),  one  could 
not  deny  or  ignore  the  sweet  restfulness  of  afternoon, 
herald  of  '  evening's  best  light.'  Dorothy  loved  her 
garden,  her  books,  her  piano,  and  her  son.  Moira 
had  these  blessings  also,  and  many  others,  notably  a 
husband  who  adored  her  and  an  ever-increasing  circle 
of  friends,  whose  friendliness,  while  undeniably  flat- 
tering, became  at  times  importunate.  She  told  herself 
that  she  loved  her  own  little  son  devotedly,  but  she 
saw  very  little  of  him. 

Nevertheless,  dominating  these  reflections  rose  the 
conviction  that  Dorothy  of  all  the  women  she  knew 
was  best  equipped  to  be  a  happy  wife  and  mother.  It 
was  intolerable  to  think  of  her  wearing  the  willow  for 
ever  and  ever.  It  was  equally  intolerable,  perhaps 
more  so,  to  conceive  of  her  as  a  shunned  creature:  one 
with  a  possibly  abominable  secret,  one  to  be  "  cut " 
by  society,  disregarded  if  not  disavowed  by  her  high 
and  mighty  relations,  unworthy,  for  instance,  to  assist 


92  H  E  R     S  O  N 

at  the  wedding  of  Amy  and  "  It."  Moira  clenched 
her  fists  and  set  her  teeth.  In  spirit  she  was  groan- 
ing out :  "  Oh,  Doll,  Doll,  you  are  a  fool,  and  that  is 
why  I  love  you  so.  To  think  of  you  as  Virgin — and 
Martyr." 

Then,  to  distract  her  mind,  she  wondered  what  her 
exact  feeling  would  have  been,  had  Dorothy  been  about 
to  marry  "It,"  with  his  many  acres,  his  famous  dia- 
monds, his  house  full  of  Romneys  and  Gainsboroughs. 
"  It "  had  offered  his  many  possessions  to  Dorothy, 
not  once  but  half  a  dozen  times.  If  she  had  accepted 
them,  would  her  life,  presumably,  have  been  happier? 
To  this  question  Lady  Curragh  could  find  no  answer 
in  a  very  tired  and  muddled  head. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WITHIN  a  month.  Dorothy  moved  to  Champfleury,  a 
pretty  village  not  far  from  Vouvray,  and  situated  high 
upon  the  right  bank  of  the  Loire.  Here  she  found  a 
small  furnished  house  standing  in  a  pretty  garden, 
which  she  took  on  a  three  years'  lease  in  the  name  of 
Madame  Armine.  The  reasons  which  constrained  her 
to  borrow  a  name  are  fairly  obvious,  but  they  were 
fortified  by  the  Helmingham  letters,  which  streamed 
across  the  Channel  for  a  fortnight,  and  then  stopped 
suddenly.  Sir  Augustus  exacted  entire  frankness,  but 
quite  wrecked  any  chance  of  obtaining  it  by  the  word- 
ing of  his  penultimate  sentence : — "  I  shall  endeavour 
to  bear  any  revelation,  however  shocking  it  may  be, 
with  patience  and  fortitude.  I  remember  your  up- 
bringing, which  was  undisciplined  and  harum-scarum. 
But  I  insist  upon  the  truth." 

Aunt  Charlotte  wrote  in  a  kinder  vein: 

"  My  poor  unhappy  child 

"What  am  I  to  think?  Your  letter  has  distressed 
us  terribly.  Your  dear  Uncle — whose  strength  makes 
him  so  nobly  forbearing  with  the  infirmities  of  weak- 
ness— has  been  indeed  a  tower  to  me.  We  can  guess 
what  has  happened.  Only  the  other  day  we  met  the 
Pilkington-Brownes  and,  much  against  her  will,  for  she 
is  a  good  Christian  woman,  she  told  us  of  meeting  you 

93 


94  H  E  R     S  0  N 

at  Dinan  and  the  terrible  scandal  there !  Oh,  my  child, 
I  was  wretched  when  your  mother  died;  and  now  how 
thankful  am  I  that  she  was  spared  this!  But  do  not 
harden  your  heart  against  us !  We  will  hush  things  up; 
for  the  present  you  are  wise  to  keep  out  of  England. 
If  I  were  not  distracted  by  Amy's  wedding,  I  should 
cross  to  you.  The  dear  Duke  of  Anglia  is  our  guest ;  he 
is  Edward's  godfather,  but  nothing  has  given  me  any 
pleasure  since  your  letter  came.  You  have  pledged 
us  to  secrecy — was  that  necessary? — but  I  should  like 
to  speak  to  the  dear  Vicar,  may  I?  Augustus  says  I 
am  blameless,  but  I  cannot  forget  that  I  sent  that 
terrible  invitation.  If  it  had  only  gone  to  Chelsea 
Barracks !  I  implore  you  to  open  your  heart  to 
"  Your  miserable  Aunt, 

"  Charlotte  Helmingham." 

Amy,  that  virgin  page,  wrote  in  semi-ignorance  of 
what  had  taken  place.  She  was  aware  that  Dorothy 
had  distressed  her  parents  to  such  an  extent  as  to  in- 
terfere with  her  aproaching  marriage,  and  even  to 
tarnish  slightly  its  gilded  splendours.  Let  us  not 
blame  our  Amy  because  she  displayed  curiosity  and 
petulance. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to,  my  dearest  Dollie? 
Father  and  mother  are  so  cross,  and,  really,  it's  rather 
hard  on  me  and  Teddy.  Father  told  me,  or  rather  I 
wheedled  it  out  of  him,  that  you  had  adopted  a  baby ! ! ! 
I  never  heard  of  anything  so  utterly  amazing.  Is  it 
a  French  baby?  For  some  absurd  reason  I  have  been 


H  E  R     S  O  N  95 

ordered  not  to  tell  Teddy,  from  whom  I  have  no  secrets. 
I  am  afraid  you  have  done  something  very  naughty! 
I  do  wish  you  would  write  me  everything.  I  am  now 
quite  as  good  as  a  married  woman.  You  were  horrid 
to  refuse  to  be  my  bridesmaid,  but  if  you  had  arrived 
with  a  baby — Really,  it  is  too  extraordinary.  What 
does  it  call  you?  Or  is  it  too  wee  to  speak?  Did  you 
buy  it?  Or  find  it?  I  can  remember  you  saying  to 
me  years  ago,  when  we  were  quite  tots,  that  you  would 
like  to  have  a  real  baby,  although  you  hated  dolls.  I 
had  more  sense  than  you,  because  I  said  I  liked  the 
dolls  best.  One  could  always  put  them  away  in  a 
drawer  when  one  was  tired  of  playing  with  them. 
Darling  Teddy  has  given  me  the  loveliest  rope  of 
pearls.  .  .  ." 

When  Dorothy  received  these  letters,  her  first  impulse 
was  to  cross  the  Channel  and  to  comfort  her  uncle  with 
the  baby's  birth  certificate.  Doubtless  a  wiser,  a  more 
worldly  young  woman  would  have  done  so  instantly. 
The  temptation  to  clear  herself  of  a  shameful  imputa- 
tion was  strong,  but  her  love  for  the  child,  her  love  for 
the  child's  father,  was  stronger.  She  realised  clearly 
enough  that  all  the  truth  must  be  told,  and,  in  fancy, 
she  could  hear  the  pompous,  carefully  articulated  ac- 
cents of  Sir  Augustus :  "  My  dear  Dorothy,  de  mortuis 
nil  nisi  bonum.  You  are  Latinist  enough  to  understand 
a  somewhat  hackneyed  quotation,  but  the  story  you  have 
told  me  only  fortifies  me  in  my  own  good  judgment  in 
having  shewn  an  unfortunate  and,  permit  me  to  add, 
unprincipled  young  man  the  door ! "  With  that  he 
would  purse  a  slightly  swollen  under-lip  and  refuse  to 


%  HER     SON 

continue  the  conversation.  Aunt  Charlotte,  good  kind 
soul,  would  renew  those  offers  of  kinship  and  affection 
which  Dorothy  had  found  so  difficult  to  decline.  Lastly, 
the  adopted  child  of  a  spinster  would  excite  endless 
gossip.  A  shadow  would  envelop  him  from  the  be- 
ginning, a  stain  would  discolour  his  innocent  blue 
eyes.  When  he  was  old  enough  to  think  intelligently 
he  would  ask  for  details  about  the  mother  who  had 
abandoned  him. 

Let  us  admit,  then,  that  a  foolish,  an  indiscreet,  a 
shortsighted  determination  was  reached  by  Dorothy. 
Let  us  admit  also  that  she  was  furious  with  her  rela- 
tions because — as  Moira  Curragh  had  predicted — they 
placed  the  worst  construction  possible  upon  her  ex- 
planations. And  she  was  too  young,  and  too  sore  at 
that  moment,  to  forgive  them,  or  to  try  to  look  at  her 
act  with  their  blinking,  short-sighted  eyes.  She  re- 
plied coldly  that  she  had  nothing  to  add  to  her  first 
letter.  Anything  would  have  served  her  better  than 
this  cold,  dignified  refusal  to  exculpate  herself  from 
an  abominable  accusation.  "  Do  not  let  me  hear  that 
abandoned  creature's  name ! "  commanded  Sir  Augus- 
tus, in  the  full  sonorous  voice  with  which  he  read 
Family  Prayers.  "  She  is  no  longer  my  niece." 

Lady  Helmingham  wrote  again,  thereby  softening 
Dorothy's  resentment,  but  confirming  her  resolution  to 
hold  her  tongue.  Aunt  Charlotte,  well-meaning,  mud- 
dled, always  dependent  upon  others,  would  abide  by 
her  husband's  judgment  in  this  as  in  everything  else. 

Because  uncle  and  aunt  reflected  faithfully  the 
opinions  and  judgments  of  the  world  in  which  she  had 


H  E  R     S  O  N  97 

lived  hitherto,  Dorothy  determined  to  drop  out  of  it 
altogether.  She  sold  the  lease  of  the  house  in  Oakley 
Street,  and  the  furniture  Dick  and  she  had  bought 
together,  which  she  felt  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
again.  But  she  sent  for  her  father's  prints  and  en- 
gravings. Then  came  the  adoption  of  a  new  name. 
Armine  pleased  her.  She  shrank  from  giving  another 
woman's  son  her  own  name.  His  father's  did  not  be- 
long to  him. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Dorothy  dropped  out 
of  one  circle  of  acquaintance  into  another  very  small 
one,  which,  with  Gallic  politeness,  accepted  her  as  a 
young  English  widow  with  a  beautiful  baby  and  inde- 
pendent means.  Some  tongues  wagged,  but  Susan 
Judkins  looked  so  aggressively  respectable,  and  Doro- 
thy herself  met  suspicious  glances  with  an  air  so  can- 
did, a  bearing  so  assured  and  dignified,  that  the  world 
of  Champfleury  became  unanimous  in  agreeing  that 
Madame  Armine  was  good  as  she  was  charming.  "  Tres, 
tres  bien,  avec  un  bebe  comme  tin  angel  " 

Long  before  this,  the  masterpiece  could  say  "  Mum  " 
and  "  Min."  He  called  Dorothy  "  Mum,"  possibly  an 
imitation  of  Susan's  "  M'm,"  always  uttered  with  a 
defiant  emphasis.  It  is  certain  that  "  Mum  "  was  the 
first  articulate  word  the  Wonder  uttered,  and  Dorothy, 
whom  we  know  to  be  truthful,  swore  that  he  said  it 
looking  into  her  eyes  and  smiling.  Later,  he  christened 
himself  "  Min  " ;  presumably  an  abbreviation  of  Armine. 

Susan  appointed  herself  head  nurse.  "  I  shall  do 
my  duty,"  she  told  Dorothy,  "  but  the  child  can't  expect 
me  to  love  it,  Miss,  I  mean  Ma'am." 


98  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  But  he  will,"  said  Dorothy ;  "  and  in  your  hard  old 
heart  you  do  love  him." 

"  If  I  was  not  a  Christian  woman,  I  should  curse 
it,"  Susan  had  replied.  It  will  be  noticed  that  she 
refused  the  infant  the  small  compliment  of  sex. 

"  You  are  a  pagan,  but  Min  will  convert  you." 

"  Not  it,"  retorted  the  ancient  handmaid. 

When  Min  was  two  years  old,  he  fell  ill.  When  the 
illness  seemed  likely  to  be  fatal,  Susan  Judkins  assumed 
a  face  of  stone.  "  God  knows  what's  best,"  she  said  to 
herself,  but  she  meant  that  she  knew  also,  and  that  death 
would  cut  knots.  But  she  had  not  steeled  herself 
against  the  piteous  sight  of  a  child's  sufferings,  nor 
had  she  understood  what  he  had  become  to  her  mistress. 
Min  grew  steadily  worse.  Finally,  there  came  an  awful 
moment,  when  a  consulting  surgeon  advised  an  opera- 
tion. 

"  Not  on  Aim,"  said  Susan,  shuddering,  "  not  on 
such  a  tiny  mite." 

"  Nothing  else  will  save  him,"  said  Dorothy.  "  Oh, 
Susan,  you  don't — you  don't  wish  that  he  would  die, 
do  you?  " 

"  Miss  Dorothy,  I  do  not  deny  that  I  have  thought 
that  would  be  a  way  out  of  the  wood." 

"  God  forgive  you,  Susan,  when  you  know  what  he 
is  to  me !  " 

Susan  bustled  away,  red  of  face,  but  she  wiped  her 
eyes  with  her  apron  more  than  once  when  she  found 
herself  alone. 

Dorothy   sat   down   in   the  pretty   salon,   gay  with 


HER     SON  99 

flowers  and  chintz,  listening  to  the  whispers  of  the 
two  doctors  in  consultation  over  Min's  tormented  little 
body.  Solomon  thrust  a  cold  nose  into  her  hand. 

"  And  you  don't  want  him  to  live  either,"  she 
exclaimed. 

Solomon  caught  her  eye  and  held  it.  His  clear 
moss-agate-coloured  orbs  shone  with  pity  and  sym- 
patKy.  As  plainly  as  a  tyke  can  put  it,  he  was  ex- 
pressing his  regret  and  promising  amendment.  Then 
he  wagged  his  short  tail  hopefully.  Dorothy  took  his 
head  between  her  hands. 

"Do  you  think  Min  will  get  well?"  she  asked. 

Solomon  considered  a  moment;  then  he  tore  his  head 
out  of  Dorothy's  hands,  and,  very  deliberately,  lay 
upon  his  back:  a  pose  known  as  dying  for  his  Queen. 
He  would  always  lie  like  this,  quite  immovable  till 
Dorothy  said :  "  Live  and  eat !  "  Now,  without  any 
word,  he  lay  perfectly  still,  and  then  jumped  to  his 
feet  and  tore  round  the  room  like  one  possessed.  But 
he  never  barked.  It  was  uncanny  to  see  him. 

"  I  believe  he  does  know,"  said  Dorothy. 

But  an  awful  twenty-four  hours  followed,  so  poign- 
ant in  its  anxiety  and  misery  that  Dorothy  never 
felt  quite  the  same  again.  The  look  of  the  nymph, 
which  the  actor  had  noted  when  he  passed  her  upon 
Albert  Bridge,  upon  the  day  of  the  storm,  van- 
ished for  ever  while  Min  fought  for  his  life,  and 
she  looked  on,  unable  to  do  anything  except  hope  and 
pray.  .  .  . 

Towards  the  end  of  this  terrible  period,  the  doctor, 


100  H  E  R     S  0  N 

a  kind  clever  fellow,  who  had  children  of  his  own, 
insisted  upon  her  taking  a  mouthful  of  food  and  fresh 
air. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  gravely,  "  you  will  want  all  your 
strength  to  nurse  him." 

Dorothy  thanked  him,  and  left  the  room.  Her 
hands  were  closed,  as  if  she  were  holding  on  tight  to 
the  morsel  of  hope  in  the  doctor's  voice.  Outside  the 
bedroom  door,  she  discovered  Susan,  not  only  red- 
faced,  but  red-eyed. 

"Susan !" 

Susan  spoke  very  hurriedly  with  a  choked,  hardly 
articulate  utterance. 

"  If  it  had  cost  me  my  place,  I  was  going  to  get  you 
out  of  that.  I  know  why  you've  not  let  me  go  near 
him.  You  don't  trust  me,  because  of  what  I  said.  I 
dessay  you  thought  I'd  forget  to  give  him  his  medicine, 
quite  accidentally  on  purpose." 

"  Susan,  you're  crazy." 

"No;  I  ain't,  but  I  have  been.  Yes;  crazy  and 
wicked.  When  you  said :  *  God  forgive  you,  Susan,' 
yesterday,  it  come  upon  me  sudden-like  that  you  meant 
me  to  understand  that  God,  in  His  mercy,  might  for- 
give such  a  mis'able  sinner,  but  that  you  wouldn't,  not 
if  it  was  never  so.  Now,  I've  been  on  my  knees  askin' 
Him  to  take  me  and  leave  you  Min.  Yes,  I  have,  and 
I  mean  it.  I'm  a  hateful  old  woman,  and  you'll  never 
forgive  me,  never." 

"  Susan ! " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dorothy " 

They  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  but  even  at  this 


HER     SON  101 

moment  Susan's  common  sense  routed  her  sentiment. 
She  released  herself  quickly,  and  said,  quite  in  her  old 
authoritative  manner: 

"  It's  not  salt  tears  you  want,  but  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  a  bit  of  chicken." 

*'  I  believe  you  love  Min,  Susan." 

"  Of  course  I  do,  but  I  wouldn't  allow  it.  I  wanted 
to  hate  the  blessed  lamb  more  than  I  ever  wanted 
anything  in  my  life.  Now,  you  come  along  with 
me." 

That  night  Min  took  a  turn  for  the  better.  The 
operation  was  pronounced  entirely  successful.  And 
•within  ten  days  the  little  fellow  looked  as  if  nothing 
had  happened ;  but  upon  his  body  and  upon  the  hearts 
of  two  women  were  scars. 

After  this  incident  life  at  Champfleury  flowed  on 
as  placidly  as  the  great  river  below  Dorothy's  cot- 
tage. It  would  be  optimism  to  state  that  Dorothy 
was  happy,  but  we  have  her  own  testimony  that  she 
was  not  unhappy.  And  there  were  wonderful  moments, 
when  she  forgot  everything  except  the  ravishing  fact 
that  a  child  loved  her.  Most  healthy  women  have  the 
maternal  instinct  strongly  developed,  but  as  often  as 
not  it  is  as  strongly  repressed,  or  perhaps  diverted  into 
other  channels.  With  Dorothy  this  instinct  seemed 
to  blow,  to  bloom,  to  expand,  day  by  day,  nourished 
by  what  it  fed  on.  Philosopher  enough  to  put  from 
her  the  past,  she  sunned  herself  in  the  present,  with 
an  occasional  jaunt  into  the  future.  She  sent  for 
Herbert  Spencer's  book  on  Education.  Let  us  whis- 


102  H  E  R     S  O  N 

per  that  she  pinched  a  bit,  so  as  to  provide  a  fund  for 
private  and  public  school  expenses.  But  her  excur- 
sions into  the  future  carried  her  no  further  than,  let 
us  say,  Winchester,  where  Richard  Gasgoyne  had  been 
educated.  Of  her  own  life,  apart  from  Min's,  she  re- 
fused to  think  lucidly  or  indeed  to  evoke  any  image 
whatever.  Some  women  are  extremely  clever  at  adap- 
tations: in  a  round  hole  they  grow  round,  in  a  square 
hole  they  develop  right  angles.  Dorothy  told  herself 
that  she  was  a  chameleon,  because  she  assumed  the 
colour,  the  soft  grey  neutral  tints,  of  the  house  and 
place  wherein  the  hours  drifted  by  so  pleasantly  and 
placidly. 

One  gets  further  insight  into  her  character  and 
temperament,  when  one  realises  that  she  held  fast  to 
the  conviction  that  Min,  since  he  had  survived  a  dan- 
gerous operation,  would  live  to  do  all  that  his  sire  would 
have  done  had  he  not  been  slain  in  Africa.  Min  was 
going  to  be  a  great  man. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  circle  in  which  she 
lived  grew  smaller.  For  instance,  partly  from  mo- 
tives of  economy,  partly  from  lack  of  interest  in 
distant  happenings,  partly,  also,  because  the  mere  men- 
tion of  certain  familiar  names  and  places  provoked 
pangs,  she  gave  up  her  English  newspaper :  perhaps  the 
most  fatal  mistake  of  any  she  had  made.  No  letters 
came  from  England  either ;  and  Moira  Curragh,  whose 
husband  had  been  made  Governor  of  a  distant  Colony, 
wrote  but  seldom,  because  Dorothy  took  an  uncon- 
scionable time  in  answering  letters.  Here  again,  we 
get  a  glimpse  of  a  castaway  turning  aching  eyes  from 


H  E  R     S  O  N  103 

the   element   which   has   witnessed   disaster.     Dorothy 
could  not  think  of  Moira  without  seeing  Dick. 

Six  months  later  the  unforeseen  occurred.  It  chanced 
that  an  English  spinster  had  come  to  Champfleury  to 
pass  the  winter  and  to  improve — so  she  told  Doro- 
thy— her  French  accent.  Dorothy  was  drawn  to  her: 
divining  much  that  was  beautiful  beneath  an  uncom- 
promisingly plain  exterior.  The  spinster's  name  was 
Mirehouse.  Two  or  three  persons  called  her  Ade- 
laide. Mirehouse  pere  had  been  a  well-to-do  mer- 
chant, ruined  in  his  old  age  by  centralisation.  A 
vast  emporium  had  established  itself  in  the  provincial 
town  in  which  Mr.  Mirehouse  had  laboured  long  and 
valiantly.  The  cockle-shell  tried  to  compete  against  the 
line-of-battle  ship  and,  of  course,  foundered.  Had  Mr. 
Mirehouse  retired  with  his  savings,  all  would  have  been 
well,  but  with  British  obstinacy  he  refused  to  move  till 
his  last  penny  was  spent ;  then  he  retreated  suddenly  to 
the  cemetery.  His  two  daughters,  neither  of  them 
young  or  strong,  had  to  begin  life  again  as  governesses. 
After  a  decade  of  middle-class  teaching,  the  younger 
sister,  Laura,  married  her  employer,  a  widower  of  sixty, 
with  a  large  family,  a  chronic  dyspepsia,  and  a  nice 
snug  business,  which  Miss  Mirehouse  euphemistically 
described  as  the  meat  trade.  Laura's  husband  was 
indeed  a  butcher:  a  pork-butcher,  if  the  whole  truth 
must  be  told. 

"  How  she  could  marry  him "  sighed  Miss  Mire- 
house. "  But  she  has ;  and  in  consequence  I  have  felt 
myself  justified  in  spending  a  certain  portion  of  my 
savings.  I  am  about  to  reculer  pour  mieux  sauter," 


104  H  E  R     S  O  N 

she  blushed  faintly.  "  You  know  what  I  mean,  dear 
Mrs.  Armine.  If  I  perfect  my  French  accent,  I  can 
demand  a  higher  salary.  The  French  here  is  very 
pure,  I  have  been  told." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  And  everything  else  is  so  good  and  so  cheap." 

After  this  Miss  Mirehouse  was  in  and  out  of  Doro- 
thy's cottage  at  least  once  a  day.  She  asked  no  ques- 
tions, evinced  no  curiosity  whatever,  and  adored  Min. 
Solomon  treated  her  with  distinguished  consideration. 

In  return  for  such  small  courtesies  as  occasional 
meals,  the  loan  of  books,  a  nosegay  or  two,  Miss  Mire- 
house  was  punctilious  in  bringing  to  Dorothy  the 
Illustrated  London  News,  despatched  regularly  from 
the  house  of  the  pork  butcher,  after  he  and  his  wife 
had — as  Miss  Mirehouse  put  it — perused  it. 

"  My  sister  Laura  has  begged  my  acceptance  of 
other  things — we  are  about  the  same  size — but  I  could 
not  justify  myself  in  appropriating  more  than  this. 
Pray  keep  it  as  long  as  you  like." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Dorothy. 

One  never-to-be-forgotten  day  Miss  Mirehouse  ar- 
rived with  the  paper  in  her  cotton-gloved  hand.  As 
she  handed  it  to  Dorothy,  with  the  usual  "  Pray  keep 
it  as  long  as  suits  your  convenience,"  she  added :  "  It 
is  more  than  usually  interesting  this  week.  There  is 
a  review,  and  some  interesting  pen  and  ink  sketches,  of 
Mr.  Gasgoyne's  book." 

"  Mr. — Gasgoyne ?  " 

Afterwards  she  wondered  that  she  had  been  able  to 
speak ;  but,  although  the  name  struck  her  with  violence, 


HER     SON  105 

her  quick  wits  apprehended  instantly  that  Miss  Mire- 
house  must  be  speaking  of  the  other  Gasgoyne,  the 
Coldstreamer. 

"  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne,  you  know." 

Dorothy  hesitated  a  second,  then  quite  easily  she 
said :  "  Dear  Miss  Mirehouse,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  do 
not  know.  What  has  Mr.  Gasgoyne  done?  " 

Happily,  the  spinster's  modesty  averted  the  catas- 
trophe which  impended. 

"  You  will  read  it  all  there,"  she  said,  indicating 
the  paper.  "  How  is  darling  Min  this  morning?  " 

"  He  is  with  Susan  Judkins,"  Dorothy  replied  ab- 
sently. "  In  the  next  room,  if  you  would  like  to  see 
him." 

"  If  I  may " 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone,  Dorothy  opened  the  paper. 
Her  fingers  trembled  slightly,  because  nobody  of  the 
name  of  Gasgoyne  could  be  indifferent  to  her;  per- 
haps instinct  warned  her  of  what  she  was  about  to 
find.  .  .  . 

Five  minues  later  Miss  Mirehouse,  returning  from 
the  nursery,  uttered  a  shrill  cry.  Dorothy  was  lying 
back  in  her  arm-chair — senseless.  The  paper,  unno- 
ticed in  the  general  excitement,  lay  upon  the  floor. 

When  she  recovered  consciousness  she  was  lying  on 
her  bed,  and  Susan  was  bending  over  her,  holding  up  a 
warning  finger. 

"  You    keep    quiet,    Miss    Dorothy.     You've    just 
fainted,  that's  all.     It  must  ha'  been  the  smell  o'  onions 
in  that  raggoo.     Miss  Mirehouse  notice  it.     She's  with 
Master  Min,  outside." 


106  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Get  me  the  Illustrated  London  News.'1 

"  Lor'  ! " 

"At  once,  please.     It's  on  the  floor  in  the  salon." 

When  the  faithful  Susan  returned,  Dorothy  was 
walking  up  and  down,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her  cheeks 
ablaze. 

"  Mercy  me !     What's  happened  ?  " 

"  Susan,  he's  not  dead.  Do  you  understand?  Mr. 
Gasgoyne  is  alive — alive!  " 

"  God  preserve  us  !  " 

"  He  has  preserved  him.  Oh,  Susan,  give  me  the 
paper  quick?  I  must  read  it  to  you.  He's  alive.  Oh, 
Susan,  Susan !  "  She  slipped  from  the  bed  and  knelt 
down.  "  Let  us  return  thanks  together  for  God's 
mercy." 

The  old  woman  and  the  young  knelt  side  by  side  in 
solemn  silence. 

A  slight  attack  of  hysteria,  laughing  and  weeping, 
followed,  treated  drastically  by  Susan. 

"  Miss  Dorothy,  you  stop  it.  If  you  don't  be'ave, 
I'll,  I'll  slap  Master  Min ;  yes,  I  will.  That  '11  bring 
you  to  your  senses.  If  you  go  on  like  this  Mr. 
Gasgoyne  '11  find  you  in  your  coffin,  and  what  would 
he  say  to  me  then,  I'd  like  to  know." 

But  has  joy  ever  been  known  to  kill  a  young  and 
healthy  woman?  Dorothy  stopped  crying,  although 
she  laughed  at  intervals:  a  laugh  that  warmed  chilled 
fibres  in  Susan's  heart. 

Gasgoyne,  it  seems,  had  been  captured  and  held  a 
prisoner  by  the  savage  tribe  which  had  attacked  and 
massacred  the  expeditionary  force.  The  review  went  on 


H  E  R     S  O  N  107 

to  describe  Gasgoyne's  thrilling  escape,  his  adventures, 
the  knowledge  of  the  country  he  had  gleaned,  and  so 
forth.  At  the  end  Susan  said  suddenly. 

"  Lor',  Miss  Dorothy,  if  we'd  kept  on  with  the 
Morning  Post  we'd  ha'  known  all  this  months  ago." 

Dorothy  gasped. 

"  So  we  should." 

But — so  she  reflected — Gasgoyne  might  not  have 
returned  to  England  immediately.  Her  speculations 
were  interrupted  by  Susan,  who  had  been  glancing 
through  the  paper. 

"  Here's  his  photograph,  Miss  Dorothy." 

"  Hush-h-h !  You  must  remember  to  call  me 
« Ma'am.'  " 

"  Not  when  we're  alone,  not  now"  said  Susan  with 
decision.  "  Pore  young  gentleman !  he  has  had  a 
rough  time  of  it.  Skin  and  bone !  " 

Dorothy  gazed  at  a  much  shrunken  Dick.  The 
photograph,  she  noticed,  had  been  taken  in  Sierra 
Leone.  Under  the  heading  "  Our  Illustrations  "  she 
found  the  following  paragraph: 

"  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne,  whose  now  famous  book  is 
reviewed  at  length  in  these  colmns,  has  settled  perma- 
nently in  London.  We  are  glad  to  be  able  to  state 
authoritatively  that  he  has  recovered  his  health." 

Dorothy  read  this  aloud,  then  she  said  with  decision: 
"  I  shall  go  to  London  at  once." 

"  And  me  and  Master  Min  ?  " 

Dorothy  considered.     The  month  was  February. 

"  You  and  Min  must  stay  here.  I  shall  come  back 
as  soon  as  I  have  seen  him." 


108  HER     SON 

"  He'll  bring  you  back,"  amended  Susan. 

"  Perhaps,"  Dorothy  blushed. 

A  minute  later,  she  was  explaining  to  Miss  Mire- 
house  that  business  of  importance  was  taking  her  from 
Champfleury.  Of  her  fainting  fit  she  said  nothing, 
and  the  discreet  spinster  asked  no  questions. 

"  I  shall  come  to  see  the  little  darling  every  day." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Dorothy.  Her  face 
looked  so  radiant  that  Miss  Mirehouse  ventured  upon 
a  compliment. 

"  My  dear,  your  business  must  be  of  a  pleasant 
nature.  You  are  positively  beaming." 

"Am  I?"  said  Dorothy.  Then  the  desire  to  ac- 
knowledge her  great  happiness  overwhelmed  her. 

"  When  I  return  I  shall  have  something  to  tell 
you;  yes,  I  am  happy.  God  has  been  very  good  to 
me."  " 

Miss  Mirehouse  tried — and  quite  successfully — to 
hide  her  curiosity.  When  she  came  to  Champfleury, 
someone  had  told  her  that  Dorothy  was  a  widow. 
Later,  Susan  Judkins,  in  answer  to  a  question  delicately 
put  by  the  little  spinster,  had  said :  "  Yes,  his  father's 
dead."  Seeing  the  radiance  in  Dorothy's  eyes,  Miss 
Mirehouse  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Min  was  about 
to  be  connected  with  a  step-father.  A  jealous  pang 
pierced  the  heart  of  this  insignificant,  dowdy,  middle- 
aged  woman,  who  had  inspired  nothing  much  stronger 
than  the  lukewarm  affection  of  a  few  pupils.  Why 
should  Dorothy  have  so  much:  youth,  health,  ample 
means,  an  angel  of  a  child,  and  two  husbands !  Poor 
Miss  Mirehouse  gazed  ruefully  at  her  carefully-darned 


H  E  R     S  O  N  109 

cotton  gloves,  at  her  stout  serviceable  skirt,  at  her 
elastic-side  boots.  Then  she  told  herself  primly  that 
she  could  not  approve  of  a  second  marriage. 

The  Channel  crossing,  a  very  smooth  passage,  con- 
trasted curiously  with  the  same  journey  undertaken 
three  years  before.  The  dominant  note  then,  ringing 
pitilessly  in  Dorothy's  ears,  had  been  the  knell  of  the 
year.  The  presentiment,  too,  that  Crystal  was  dying, 
that  she  might  arrive  to  find  her  dead,  had  lain  heavy 
upon  her.  And  over  land  and  sea  hung  wracks  of  cloud, 
torn  and  twisted  by  the  wind  into  monstrous  shapes  of 
darkness. 

Now,  in  early  February,  the  skies  were  clear,  and 
upon  all  things  lay  the  magical  touch  of  spring.  The 
air  was  sparklingly  fresh  and  bracing.  Hoar  frost  had 
silvered  the  trees  and  the  grasses  in  the  fields,  but  when 
the  sun  rose  a  delicious  warmth  pervaded  the  air.  The 
joyous  notes  of  the  blackbird  echoed  in  every  coppice; 
the  fluting  of  the  robin  singing  to  his  mate  could  be 
heard;  the  male  chaffinches  no  longer  banded  together 
were  busy  a-courting ;  from  wattled  folds  came  the 
feeble,  piteous  bleat  of  newly-born  lambs.  Moreover, 
Dorothy  was  peculiarly  sensible  of  the  charm  of  her 
own  country,  of  its  gripping  fascination  after  absence, 
of  its  power  to  evoke  half-forgotten  facts  and  fancies 
of  long  ago,  and  to  present  them  not  exactly  as  they 
were,  but  as  they  might  have  been  under  the  happiest 
circumstances.  Most  of  us  are  aware  of  this  glamour 
when  we  revisit  old  haunts,  and  if  we  are  wise  we  make 
no  effort  to  dispel  it,  but  rather  welcome  it.  Time 


110  HER     SON 

has  rubbed  down  some  rough  edges,  hard  stones  have 
been  covered  with  soft  mosses  and  lichens,  the  red  bricks 
are  mellower  in  tint:  everything  is  different — and  we 
know  it — but  we  say  that  it  is  exactly  the  same. 

During  this  journey  Dorothy  had  time  to  answer 
several  difficult  questions.  Why  had  Dick  not  at- 
tempted to  communicate  with  her?  The  paper  spoke 
of  illness ;  he  might  have  staggered  back  a  wreck ; 
broken  in  mind  and  body.  But  the  press,  which 
he  had  served  faithfully,  must  have  proclaimed  his 
resurrection  from  the  dead.  The  Helminghams — in 
particular  the  chief  of  the  house — allowed  no  jot  or 
tittle  of  news  to  escape  them.  It  was  cruel  of  them 
not  to  have  written,  unless — Dorothy  felt  herself  to 
be  blushing  furiously,  afire  with  indignation,  with 
helpless  resentment.  The  Helminghams,  of  course, 
were  the  last  people  in  the  world  to  speak,  when 
silence,  according  to  their  inviolable  rules,  might  be 
conscientiously  deemed  more  appropriate.  Aunt  Char- 
lotte, who  was  not  a  Helmingham,  might  have  bleated 
faintly :  "  Oh,  Augustus,  I  must  let  Dorothy  know," 
and  Sir  Augustus  would  have  answered  in  his  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  manner :  "  My  dear  Charlotte,  I  am  surprised  at 
you.  You  propose  to  compound  a  moral  felony,  to 
be  a  party  to  a  shocking  misdemeanour,"  and  so  forth. 
And  if  Dick  had  called  upon  her  august  rela- 
tives, she  was  sure  that  the  flunkeys  had  slammed  a 
nicely-varnished  door  in  his  face.  If  he  went  to  Oakley 
Street,  ignorance  would  answer  the  bell.  Moira  Cur- 
ragh  was  somewhere  in  New  Zealand. 


HER     SON  111 

No;  deliberately,  she  had  cut  herself  off  from  Diet, 
because  she  had  made  certain  that  he  was  dead. 

When  she  reached  London,  she  whispered  to  herself 
that  she  was  in  the  same  city  with  Dick,  that  in  a  few 
minutes  she  would  know  his  address,  that  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  she  might  be  in  his  arms.  She  drove 
to  a  hotel,  where  she  left  her  baggage,  and  then  went 
on  in  the  same  cab  to  Dick's  publishers',  who,  of  course, 
would  know  Dick's  address.  But,  to  her  surprise,  a 
civil  clerk  hemmed  and  hawed  a  semi-refusal.  A  note 
would  be  duly  forwarded,  or  a  telegram.  Dorothy, 
who  had  forgotten  to  give  her  name,  said  excitedly: 
"  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand;  I  have  only  just 
learnt  that  Mr.  Gasgoyne  is  alive:  I  have  mourned 
him  as  dead ;  I  have  travelled  from  Touraine  to  see  him. 
Surely,  you  don't  refuse  me  his  address." 

At  this  the  clerk,  who  was  human,  said  amiably: 

"  I  will  speak  to  the  head  of  the  firm.  Your  name, 
Madam,  if  you  please?" 

Dorothy  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  Miss  Fairfax,  Miss  Dorothy  Fairfax." 

"  Thank  you." 

Half  a  minute  later  he  came  back,  accompanied  by 
a  tall,  thin,  kindly-faced  man. 

"Miss  Fairfax,  will  you  spare  me  one  minute?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Dorothy.  She  was  wondering 
what  was  the  matter  with  the  head  of  the  firm.  Did 
he  suffer  from  a  slight  form  of  St.  Vitus's  dance,  or 
was  it  an  incipient  palsy?  He  seemed  to  be  much 
afflicted  with  some  unfamiliar  nervous  affection.  Doro- 


112  HER     SON 

thy  followed  him  into  a  square,  cosy  room  lined  with 
books,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  an  enormous  desk, 
littered  with  papers,  letters  and  manuscripts.  There 
•was  a  smell  of  musty  leather  coming  from  a  row  of 
quartos  in  the  bookshelf  nearest  to  Dorothy's  chair. 
That  faint,  decaying  odour  came  back  to  her  a  thou- 
sand times. 

"  So  you  are  Miss  Fairfax?  "  His  voice  quavered 
oddly. 

"  Yes." 

61  You — pardon  me,  for  I  must  seem  indiscreet,  but 
you  will  forgive  me.  You — you  were  engaged  to  Mr. 
Gasgoyne  before  he  went  to  Central  Africa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorothy  gravely.  "  I  was  engaged  to 
him." 

"  And  the  engagement  was  broken  off." 

"It  was  indefinitely  postponed." 

The  publisher,  who  was  not  only  at  the  head  of  his 
own  business,  but  a  personage  in  the  social  world, 
picked  up  a  pencil  and  began  to  make  a  series  of  dots 
upon  a  scribbling  pad.  His  partner  and  his  wife  were 
aware  of  this  habit,  which  indicated  indecision  and 
anxiety. 

"My  clerk  tells  me  that  you  have  only  just  heard 
of  Mr.  Gasgoyne's  return  to  life  and  England." 

"  The  day  before  yesterday." 

"  And  you  know  nothing  more?  " 

"  He  is  not— ill?  " 

"  He  is  perfectly  well." 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,  what  is  it?  I  am 
sure  you  are  kind;  you  wish  to  spare  me  some  sudden 


HER     SON  113 

shock,  some — Oh,  what  is  it?  I  know  nothing,  except 
that  he  has  written  a  book." 

"  Just  so :  a  very  successful  book.  The  third  edition 
comes  out  to-morrow.  I  have  a  copy  here."  He 
picked  up  a  large,  attractively-bound  volume,  which 
he  held  towards  Dorothy.  As  she  took  it,  she  saw  that 
the  man's  eyes  wandered  uneasily  from  hers.  He  could 
not  face  the  startled  interrogation  of  her  glance. 
Abruptly,  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the 
window;  when  he  turned  he  had  recovered  his  self- 
control.  Dorothy,  holding  the  book  in  her  hands, 
stared  helplessly  at  him. 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne  has  gone  abroad  for  a  fortnight." 

"Abroad?" 

Instantly,  Dorothy  smiled,  divining  the  truth,  inter- 
preting the  man's  awkward  manner,  his  hesitation,  his 
evasions.  Dick  and  she  had  crossed  each  other.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  her,  and  this  publisher,  evidently  a 
friend  also,  knew  it.  Dick  had  discovered  her  address. 
That  was  like  him.  He  had  hunted  for  her.  She 
put  her  thoughts  into  quick  words 

"  He  has  been  looking  for  me?  " 

"  Yes."  The  publisher  pointed  at  the  book  in  Doro- 
thy's hand,  as  he  continued  in  the  same  quiet,  even 
voice :  "  If  you  will  look  at  the  dedication,  you  will 
understand  why  I  asked  you  to  give  me  this  interview." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  walked  back  to  the  window. 

Dorothy  opened  the  book.  Upon  the  dedicatory 
page  were  inscribed  three  words: 

TO  MY  WIFE 


CHAPTER  VII 

DOROTHY  could  never  remember  with  any  definiteness 
how  she  escaped  from  Gasgoyne's  publisher,  but  out- 
wardly she  behaved  with  coolness  and  self-possession. 
Her  most  vivid  memory  of  what  followed  was  that  of 
pledging  the  publisher  to  secrecy  and  then  finding  her- 
self in  Piccadilly,  clutching  Dick's  book,  dedicated  to 
Dick's  wife.  She  preserved  a  dim  recollection  of  laugh- 
ing aloud  and  meeting  the  amazed  and  amused  glance 
of  a  foot-passenger,  a  very  correctly-attired  youth 
on  his  way  to  his  club.  After  that,  although  she  was 
able  to  control  herself,  she  had  a  feeling  that  others 
must  know  what  had  come  to  pass,  that  her  story  was 
written  in  indelible  ink  upon  her  face.  The  porter 
at  her  hotel  seemed  to  stare,  the  chambermaid,  who 
answered  the  bell,  conveyed  by  her  manner  that  she 
knew  everything,  that  she  could  divine  subtleties  of 
the  feminine  mind  which  as  yet  Dorothy  herself  had 
hardly  had  time  to  apprehend  or  even  to  perceive.  The 
girl  looked  as  if  she  also  were  torn  in  two  by  misery ; 
her  eyes,  positively,  were  wet;  she  might  have  been 
crying  outside  the  door. 

"  Have  you  lost  a — relation?  " 

"  A  relation  ?  I  could  spare  one  or  two  of  them ! 
I've  lost  my  young  man,  Miss." 

The  young  man — it  appeared — had  abandoned  her 

114 


HER     SON  115 

for  a  "  shoppie,"  a  minx  who  tried  to  ape  real  ladies, 
and,  with  the  help  of  pinchbeck  jewellery  and  a  new 
hat,  had  succeeded  in  alluring  Jack  from  the  side  of 
an  honest  and  faithful  Jill. 

"  He'll  come  back  to  you,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  Not  'im,  Miss.  He  went  off  in  a  huff  like ;  and  he 
won't  come  back.  I  know  he  won't.  They  never  do. 
If  I'd  held  on  to  'im  tighter " 

Dorothy  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  very  unsuccess- 
fully. After  the  girl  had  left  the  room,  she  mar- 
shalled her  own  thoughts,  faced  the  facts,  speculated 
miserably  upon  what  might  have  been.  If  she  had 
held  on  tighter !  If  she  had  continued  her  sub- 
scription to  an  English  newspaper !  Who  has  not 

writhed  under  the  torture  of  realising  how  insignificant 
an  incident  may  mar  our  lives,  until  the  higher  wisdom 
teaches  that  nothing  is  insignificant,  except  perhaps 
our  own  sickly  and  languishing  efforts  to  rebel  against 
Omnipotence. 

Dorothy  remained  in  her  own  room,  and  ate  with 
difficulty  one  poached  egg.  A  man,  she  reflected  idly, 
would  probably  have  heartened  himself  up  with  the  best 
food  and  drink  he  could  afford.  In  affliction  is  weak 
tea  a  better  substitute  than  champagne?  Dorothy's 
tea  was  very  weak,  and  she  lacked  the  energy  to  order 
a  stronger  brew. 

She  passed  a  wretched  night.  Twice  she  essayed  to 
read  Gasgoyne's  book ;  but  it  was  so  individual,  so  per- 
sonal, so  saturated  throughout  with  his  own  particular 
quips  and  turns  of  speech,  that  the  man,  so  to  speak, 
seemed  to  stand  at  her  side.  She  saw  him  plainly, 


116  HER     SON 

and  he  mocked  her  with  his  blue,  sparkling  eyes  which 
shone  warmly  upon  another  woman:  his  wife. 

Dorothy  fell  to  wondering  what  manner  of  woman 
she  was.  She  wished  that  she  had  asked  the  publisher 
for  details.  Was  she  pretty?  Clever?  Good  and 
kind?  She  must  have  great  qualities,  to  be  sure,  or 
Dick  would  not  have  chosen  her.  Had  Dick  told  her 
about  Crystal? 

Next  day  the  necessity  of  speech  sent  her  in  search 
of  Crystal.  The  only  other  woman  in  the  world  to 
whom  she  could  have  spoken,  Moira  Curragh,  was  in 
New  Zealand,  probably  in  ignorance  of  Dick's  return  to 
life.  Dorothy  had  not  answered  Crystal's  letter  an- 
nouncing her  intention  of  abandoning  Min,  but  from 
time  to  time  she  had  heard  of  the  triumphs  of  the 
actress,  now  regarded  as  a  star  in  the  theatrical  firma- 
ment, and  likely  to  become  one  of  the  first  magnitude. 
Often  she  had  wondered  if  Crystal  suffered  any  pangs 
of  remorse,  if  she  felt  invisible  hands  tugging  at  her 
heart  strings,  if,  when  alone  at  night,  she  heard  the 
voice  of  a  child?  Perhaps.  And  with  the  flight  of  the 
months,  pity  for  Crystal  had  softened  revulsion.  The 
mother-love  waxed  strong  in  Dorothy,  sweetening  her 
thoughts  and  actions  so  pervasively  and  subtly,  that  its 
absence  in  the  real  mother  came  to  be  regarded  as  a 
calamity  rather  than  a  crime.  Dorothy  never  felt  the 
baby's  lips  upon  her  own  without  the  reflection :  "  Poor 
Crystal,  if  she  knew  what  she  was  missing !  " 

She  scanned  the  column  of  theatrical  announcements, 
assured  that  she  would  find  Crystal's  name,  for,  driving 
from  Waterloo  Station  upon  the  previous  day,  she  had 


HER     SON  117 

seen  it  in  letters  a  yard  long  upon  the  hoardings.  In 
the  morning  paper,  however,  it  was  not.  The  thought 
followed  that  the  actress  might  be  ill.  Crystal  loved 
Dick  and  her  profession.  Dorothy  had  wondered  more 
than  once  which  might  be  the  stronger  passion.  News 
of  Dick's  death,  it  is  true,  had  kindled  an  intensity  of 
feeling  disastrous  to  the  complexions  of  certain  ladies 
in  the  stalls ;  but  Dick's  marriage  might  have  over- 
whelmed a  passionate  and  ill-disciplined  creature  with 
hysterical  prostration. 

After  breakfast,  a  sorry  meal  of  tea  and  toast,  Doro- 
thy drove  to  the  theatre  where  Crystal  had  been  playing 
recently.  In  the  prettily  decorated  entrance  hall  hung 
large  framed  photographs  of  the  actress.  Dorothy 
paused  to  look  at  them.  Certainly  Crystal  had  changed 
immeasurably.  Success  had  touched  her  with  magic 
wand.  She  had  acquired  an  indefinable  air  of  distinc- 
tion and  self-possession.  Her  beautiful  face,  with  its 
slightly  derisive  smile,  seemed  to  defy  the  beholder  to 
resist  its  power:  a  power — so  Dorothy  reflected — not 
too  scrupulous  in  its  triumphant  manifestation.  With 
a  sigh  she  crossed  the  hall  and  asked  the  keeper  of  the 
box-office  if  Miss  Wride  was  in  town. 

"  Miss  Wride  is  away,"  he  answered.  "  She  is 
married." 

Afterwards  Dorothy  wondered  if  she  were  incredibly 
stupid  inasmuch  as  this  piece  of  news  aroused  merely  a 
vague  and  incurious  interest,  and  the  sense  that  to 
Crystal  married  she  could  say  nothing.  Of  a  sudden 
Crystal  seemed  to  have  been  wafted  far  away,  beyond 
her  horizon. 


118  HER     SON 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorothy. 

It  was  very  early,  and  the  business  of  the  day  had  not 
yet  begun.  The  young  man  in  the  office  ventured  on  a 
remark. 

"  Her  marriage  made  a  splash,"  he  said.  "  I  think 
she  regards  it  as  a  tremendous  *  ad,'  and  so  it  is." 

"  I  had  not  heard  of  it." 

"  You  know  Miss  Wride?  " 

"  I  knew  her  very  well  indeed,  once." 

The  young  man  happened  to  be  a  kind  soul,  and  like 
most  members  of  his  profession  absurdly  convinced  that 
anything  which  concerned  "  stars  "  must  be  of  over- 
whelming interest  to  all  the  world.  He  handed  Dorothy 
a  newspaper,  neatly  rolled. 

"  We  sent  out  scores  of  these,"  he  said.  "  You  will 
find  everything  described  in  detail,  and  pictures  of  her 
frocks.  They  made  a  sort  of  special  edition  of  it." 

Dorothy  accepted  the  paper,  thanked  the  young  man, 
and  went  back  to  her  hansom.  If  her  reflections  had 
any  particular  definiteness,  they  took  the  form  of  indif- 
ference regarding  Crystal's  husband  and  Dick's  wife. 
The  odds  were  great  that  she  knew  neither.  Not  till 
she  reached  her  room  at  the  hotel,  did  she  open  the 
paper. 

Then  another  great  shock  laid  its  paralysing  touch 
upon  her. 

Dick  Gasgoyne  had  married  Crystal. 

The  first  effect  of  this  second  cruel  blow  was  to  crush 
Dorothy  into  a  creature  hardly  recognisable.  In  her 
jealousy,  her  misery,  her  futile  rage  she  became  as 


HER     SON  119 

Crystal.  She  could  feel  her  nails  upon  Crystal's  cheeks 
and  eyes.  She  desired  intensely  to  injure  her  and  Dick, 
and  to  injure  each,  a  subtler  injury,  through  the  medium 
of  the  other. 

And  Min  was  the  weapon  which  the  Fates  had  thrust 
into  her  hands.  It  was  obvious  that  Crystal  had  con- 
cealed Min's  birth  from  Dick,  that  she  had  married  him 
under  false  pretences,  by  fraud.  And  Dick  loathed 
fraud  and  decit.  When  he  knew  the  truth,  he  would 
turn  in  shuddering  disgust  from  his  wife,  as  he  had 
turned  from  her  before.  And  before  the  honeymoon 
had  waned,  the  bride  and  groom  would  know  of  Min's 
existence.  Min,  who  was  no  pitiful  waif  of  the  gutter, 
but  a  strong  masterful  man-child. 

She  had  the  publisher's  word  that  Dick  had  hunted 
for  her.  How  was  it  that  he,  a  trained  journalist,  had 
failed  to  find  her?  The  conviction  deepened  that  Dick 
must  have  abandoned  his  quest  too  lightly.  Doubtless 
he  had  never  forgiven  the  postponement  of  their  mar- 
riage and  her  determination  not  to  write  to  him.  Per- 
haps— this  gnawed  at  her  vitals,  he  had  taken  for 
granted  that  she  wished  to  hide  herself  from  him,  and 
being  a  proud  man,  he  had  withdrawn  from  pursuit  as 
soon  as  he  learned  that  she  had  dropped  out  of  society 
within  a  month  of  his  departure. 

But  if  she  tried  to  find  excuses  for  Dick,  although 
hardly  consciously,  she  knew  that  Crystal  had  behaved 
abominably:  with  inconceivable  baseness  and  ingrati- 
tude. Dick,  in  a  moment  of  weariness  and  despair,  with 
his  physical  forces  at  a  low  ebb,  had  been  snatched. 
Crystal  loved  him,  and  love,  when  unscrupulous,  became 


120  H  E  R     S  O  N 

an  irresistible  force.  Dick  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
re-entangled  with  a  woman  whom  he  did  not  love,  but 
to  whom  he  was  grateful  and  to  whom  he  wished  to  make 
reparation. 

Mentally  speaking,  she  felt  herself  to  be  eviscerated. 
Those  who  have  suffered  from  overwhelming  shock  will 
remember  this  feeling  of  emptiness,  as  if  the  husk  alone 
were  left.  And  all  one  can  whisper  to  such  unfor- 
tunates is  the  certainty  that  because  everything  old 
seems  to  have  been  swept  away,  therefore  something 
new  must  replace  it.  In  the  world  of  feeling  as  in 
the  physical  world  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum. 

Three  days  later  Dorothy,  looking  terribly  pale  and 
tired,  was  back  at  Champfleury.  She  travelled  to  Tou- 
raine,  via  Paris,  calling  at  the  Institution  for  Little 
Mistakes  to  ask  a  question.  Had  Crystal  made  any 
effort  to  trace  or  recover  her  child?  The  Mother 
Superior  smiled  discreetly  as  she  answered :  "  No." 
Then  she  added:  "  Such  enquiries  are  rare,  madame." 
Dorothy  took  leave,  knowing  that  Crystal  had  married 
Dick  under  false  pretences.  Dick,  she  knew,  would  have 
attempted  to  get  back  his  son. 

Min's  delight  at  seeing  her  did  not  soften  her  heart, 
nor  her  resolution  to  make  use  of  him  as  a  weapon. 
Then  followed  a  talk  with  Susan,  who  said  at  the  end 
of  it: 

"  Miss  Dorothy,  I  'ad  the  feelin'  that  Mr.  Gasgoyne 
would  not  come  back  to  you.  I  know  something  of — 
men,  not  much,  I've  not  had  the  chances  some  have,  but 
enough,  quite  enough.  Whatever  are  you  going  to 
do?" 


HER     SON  121 

Dorothy  had  wondered  how  she  would  answer  this 
inevitable  question. 

"  They,  Mr.  Gasgoyne  and  his  wife,  are  in  France, 
in  the  South:  I  have  their  address.  Min  must  go  to 
them." 

"  Lor' ! "  said  Susan. 

"  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind,  Susan." 

Susan  looked  deep  into  the  dazed  eyes  of  her  mis- 
tress. Then  she  said  slowly: 

"  You  mean  to  leave  Master  Min  with — her" 

Susan  Judkins's  pronunciation  of  the  pronoun  had, 
for  Dorothy,  all  the  force  and  emphasis  of  a  com- 
mination  service.  Dorothy's  voice  trembled  slightly, 
as  she  answered: 

"  With— him." 

"Well,  I  never !" 

"  If  you  would  speak  plainly,  Susan " 

"  Leave  Master  Min  with  a  man  ?  What  does  a 
man  know  about  the  care  of  such  a  child  as  that?  If 
you  leave  that  blessed  darling  with  him,  she'll  put  it 
out  of  the  way." 

"  Please  don't  be  ridiculous." 

Susan  sniffed. 

"  What  would  you  do,  Susan?  " 

Susan  burst  into  flame. 

"  What  would  I  do  ?  Why,  he's  yours  legally ; 
you've  told  me  that  again  and  again  ;  I'd  keep  the  blessed 
lamb,  I  would,  and  not  turn  him  over  to  a  she-wolf, 
and  a  man  as  ain't  fit  to  look  after  'imself  let  alone  a 
baby.  Master  Min's  more  to  you  than  to  all  the  rest 
of  the  world.  He's  all  you  have.  That's  plain  as 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

print  to  me,  though  my  eyes  are  dim.  Why,  you  wor- 
ship him." 

Dorothy's  pale  cheeks  flushed. 

"  The  father  must  be  told." 

"Why?  A  nice  father  he's  been,  to  be  sure! 
Master  Min  will  be  packed  off  again  to  the  Fond- 
ling » 

"  No,  no." 

"  Miss  Dorothy,  you  mean  well,  of  course,  but  you 
are  a  child  yourself.  If  you'd  plotted  and  planned  to 
make  Mr.  Dick  wild  with  rage  and  wickedness  you 
couldn't  do  better  than  take  Master  Min  to  him." 

And  again  the  blood  rushed  hotly  into  Dorothy's 
cheeks.  Susan,  mistaking  her  emotion,  drove  home  her 
arguments. 

"  I  never  was  one  to  say  e  I  told  you  so,'  but  I  did 
warn  you  that  you  was  making  an  'ole  and  corner 
business  of  this.  Now  to  see  such  goodness  as  yours 
turning  sour " 

"  Susan " 

"Well?" 

Dorothy  paused.  She  was  about  to  confess,  to  lay 
bare  her  real  motives.  Then,  in  a  moment,  she  realised 
what  it  would  mean  to  the  faithful  creature  with  such 
hard  features  and  so  soft  a  heart.  She  sighed,  know- 
ing that  ever  after  Susan's  admiration  and  respect 
would  be  heavy  to  bear.  Then  she  said  quietly: 

"  You  would  keep  him  without  saying  a  word.  " 

"  Yes ;  I  would,  I  would,  I  would.  I'd  sooner  speak 
than  hold  my  tongue  any  hour  of  the  day,  but  there's 
times  and  seasons  to  be  quiet.  And  now  that  we've 


H  E  R     S  O  N  123 

learned  to  love  him  you  mean  to  give  him  up.  Oh, 
dear!  Oh,  dear!  And  there's  something  else 

"Well?" 

"  Miss  Dorothy,  you  know  it  will  be  just  awful  for 
you,  meeting  Mr.  Gasgoyne." 

"  I  might  send  Min  with  you  ?  " 

"With  me!  No,  M'm,  that  dirty  work  I  will  not 
do." 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  the  small  salon  adjoin- 
ing the  nursery,  where  at  the  moment  Min  was  playing 
with  Solomon.  The  wise  tyke,  having  accepted  Min, 
had  determined  to  make  the  best  of  him.  He  regarded 
the  child  as  a  puppy,  and  when  in  want  of  a  little 
relaxation  condescended  to  romp  with  him.  Min 
gurgled  and  gloated  over  Solomon  in  a  manner  that 
might  be  boring,  but  must  be  considered  flattering. 
And  what  great  man  has  been  proof  against  flattery? 
Now,  through  the  open  door,  came  the  sound  of  Min's 
laughter  and  Solomon's  short,  curt  remarks. 

"  And  you'd  separate  'im  and  poor  Solomon " 

This  was  Susan's  last  shot.  It  struck  Dorothy's 
sense  of  humour  so  shrewd  a  blow  that  she  laughed, 
and  no  derision  lurked  in  that  laughter. 

"  Solomon  would  be  glad,  Susan ;  he  has  been  so 
jealous." 

"  That's  over  and  done  with.  Solomon's  got  his 
f  eelings,  and  there  was  a  time  when  him  and  me  thought 
alike,  and  quite  right  too,  but  now,  after  what  we've 
all  been  through,  the  teething,  and  his  illness,  and 
that  awful  operation " 

At  this  moment  Min's  voice  came  floating  to  her 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

cars ;  the  insistent  cry  of  the  child  who  has  never  been 
denied : 

"  Mum,  Mum,  Mum !  " 

Dorothy  rose  up,  pale  and  slightly  excited. 

"  If  there  were  more  mothers  like  you,"  murmured 
the  astute  Susan,  "  children  like  Master  Min  wouldn't 
live  to  wish  they'd  died  before  they  was  born." 

"  Susan,  do  you  understand  what  this  means  ?  It 
means  deception,  and,  later,  when  Min  asks  questions, 
it  means  lies." 

"  Call  'em  fibs,  Miss  Dorothy.  No  woman  minds  tell- 
ing fibs  for  them  she  loves.  Wouldn't  I  tell  a  big  lie 
and  stick  to  it,  too,  if  it  would  do  you  any  good?  " 

"  Susan,  we  are  wicked  women." 

"  You  can  speak  for  yourself,  M'm.  I  never  felt 
better  in  my  life." 

But  Dorothy  hesitated. 

"  Susan,  if  he  should  live  to  reproach  me " 

"  And  if  he  should  die  with  them  of — neglect " 

"  If  one  could  ask  for  a  sign,"  said  Dorothy  des- 
perately. 

"  The  Lord  has  given  you  signs  enough,  I  should 
think.  Thomas  himself  couldn't  doubt  what  was  in- 
tended." 

Again,  Min  cried  aloud  for  Dorothy: 

"Mum,  Mum!" 

Afterwards,  she  wondered  whether  a  sign  had  been 
vouchsafed  her,  for  Min  came  toddling  towards  her, 
holding  out  his  dimpled  arms.  Dorothy  looked  at 
Susan,  who  said  meaningly :  "  He  wants  you.  Don't 
you  want  him?  " 


HER     SON  125 

Dorothy  bent  down  and  picked  up  the  child,  who 
clung  to  her  neck.  When  she  felt  his  kisses  upon  her 
cheek,  his  fingers  at  her  throat,  his  soft  lisping  voice 
in  her  ear,  she  clutched  him  to  her  bosom  with  passion. 
Susan  glanced  at  her,  smiled  knowingly,  and  went  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WE  pass  over  a  few  uneventful  years.  Looking  back 
long  afterwards,  Dorothy  often  wondered  why  they 
had  been  so  happy.  Perhaps  compensation  had  so 
ordained  it,  realising  that  Dorothy  was  entitled  to  such 
rest  and  peace  as  may  be  found  rather  in  the  placid 
backwaters  of  the  world  than  in  its  roaring  thorough- 
fares. In  cutting  herself  off  from  relations  and 
friends  she  had  lost  much  that  most  women  rate  highly, 
but  she  had  gained  freedom  of  thought  and  action. 
The  hours  glided  by  with  so  little  friction  that  she 
might  have  imagined  Time  as  standing  still  had  it 
not  been  for  the  growth  of  Min.  From  the  cradle  he 
had  shewn  himself  to  be  masterful.  Dorothy  never 
forgot  the  first  serious  clash  between  their  wills,  when 
Min  was  three  years  old.  Susan  having  forbidden  the 
child  to  do  something  or  other,  he  had  disobeyed  his 
too  indulgent  nurse.  Appeal  was  made  by  both  parties 
to  Caesar.  Caesar,  of  course,  sustained  authority. 
Whereupon  Min,  standing  with  head  erect  and  defiant 
had  said  emphatically: 

"  Susan  says  *  No/  and  Mummie  says  '  No,'  but 
Min  says  'yes  ' — and  Min  will." 

And  Min  did  the  thing  forbidden. 

He  had  to  be  spanked.  After  the  spanking,  which 
he  endured  manfully,  he  remarked :  "  Mum  spank  Min 
too  hard." 

126 


H  E  R     S  O  N  127 

"  Mum  hopes  that  Min   is  sorry  he  was  naughty." 

"  Min   is   very   glad." 

A  year  later,  when  he  was  caught  playing  with  fire, 
a  more  serious  whipping  had  to  be  administered.  Doro- 
thy cut  a  small  hazel  switch,  which  Susan  and  she  tested 
in  secret  upon  each  other's  hands. 

Min  received  four  stinging  cuts.  Next  day,  Doro- 
thy, coming  quietly  into  the  nursery,  found  him 
dancing  in  front  of  the  matches.  He  was  advancing 
and  retreating,  stretching  out  his  fingers  till  they 
almost  touched  the  box  and  then  withdrawing  them. 
Dorothy,  unperceived  by  the  urchin,  watched  him  in 
amazement. 

"  See,  Satan,  see !  I'm  not  touching  'em.  See !  You'd 
like  me  to,  wouldn't  you?  But  I  won't.  See,  see!  " 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Min  ?  " 

"  Mumsie,  I'm  takin'  in  Satan.  He  thinks  I'm  going 
to  touch  the  matches,  but  I  ain't." 

Dorothy  taught  him  his  first  lessons,  but  she  soon 
realised  that  he  would  need  teaching  other  than  she 
could  give.  Shall  we  say  that  she  was  afraid  to  imperil 
Min's  adoration  for  her  by  metamorphosing  herself 
into  a  daily  governess?  At  any  rate  a  disciplinarian 
of  a  Frenchwoman  was  found  in  Tours,  and  under 
her  able  rule  Min  learned  much  that  he  never  forgot. 
Then,  one  day,  Susan  said  tartly: 

"  Master  Min  is  becoming  that  Frenchified !  " 

He  was  eight  years  old,  and  big  for  his  age,  when 
Susan  fired  this  train  of  gunpowder. 

"Rubbish,  Susan." 

"  He  speaks  French  like  a  Frenchy." 


128  HER     SON 

"  Of  course  he  does,  thank  Heaven !  " 

"  And  he  speaks  English  like  a  Frenchy." 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

"  You're  becoming  Frenchified  yourself,  M'm." 

"  Really,  Susan " 

"  And  so  am  I.  It's  not  natural.  I've  almost  for- 
gotten what  bacon  smells  like  for  breakfast.  We  ought 
to  go  back  to  England.  Master  Min  might  attend  Miss 
Mirehouse's  school  in  Winchester." 

This  gave  Dorothy  pause.  The  excellent  Miss  Mire- 
house  had  established  a  small  day-school  in  the  ancient 
city,  and  had  forwarded  a  prospectus  to  her  kindest 
and  dearest  Mrs.  Armine.  For  two  days  after  her 
talk  with  Susan,  Dorothy  walked  about  Champfleury 
saying  to  herself:  "  Why  not?  " 

But  she  loathed  the  idea  of  leaving  her  cottage  and 
her  independence.  Touraine  had  cast  its  glamour  upon 
her.  She  had  taken  root  in  its  friable,  fertile  soil ;  its 
sunshine  had  warmed  her  to  the  marrow  when  she  had 
felt  herself  to  be  chilled  forever.  She  knew  every 
soul  in  the  small  village.  She  had  made  friends  with 
half  a  dozen  pleasant  families  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Indeed,  two  men  of  position  had  formally  demanded 
her  hand  in  marriage.  Briefly,  she  might  reckon  her- 
self bven  instaHlee,  with  an  assured  position  amongst 
very  charming  people.  In  Winchester  she  would  have 
to  begin  all  over  again. 

In  the  end,  however,  she  returned  to  her  native 
country. 

With  the  assistance,  effusively  tendered,  of  Miss 
Mirehouse  the  lease  of  a  house  near  Winchester  was 


H  E  R     S  O  N  129 

taken  over.  It  was  a  tiny  house,  but  it  stood  in  a 
pretty,  old-fashioned  garden,  and  hard  by  flowed  the 
River  Itchen.  Dorothy  felt  that  she  must  live  near 
a  river.  After  the  mighty  Loire  the  pretty  Hamp- 
shire stream  seemed  but  a  rill;  nevertheless  it  also 
flowed  to  the  sea,  bearing  with  it  Dorothy's  fancies, 
her  hopes  and  ambitions,  fears,  disappointments:  all 
that  she  was  constrained  to  hide  from  fellow-creatures. 

In  fine  weather,  as  had  been  her  habit  in  France,  she 
liked  to  sit  by  the  stream,  reading  or  reflecting.  The 
running  water  was  the  medium  by  which  she  held  com- 
munion with  the  larger  world  beyond. 

The  parson  and  the  parson's  wife  called,  and  then 
in  due  course  others,  who  heard  that  a  young  and 
charming  widow  had  taken  Rosemary  Cottage.  In  the 
cathedral  close,  in  scholastic  circles,  in  the  mess  room, 
around  the  dinner  tables  of  august  county  magnates, 
gossip  trifled  with  the  name  of  Armine.  The  Dean 
put  the  question  concretely:  "  Who  was  Mr.  Armine?  " 
Miss  Mirehouse  repled :  "  The  father  of  that  darling 
child,  who  has  been  entrusted  to  me."  Society,  urban 
and  suburban,  accepted  this  crumb  in  lieu  of  a  loaf, 
but  curiosity  was  only  whetted.  Dorothy's  French 
frocks  were  too  pretty  to  be  quite  the  right  thing; 
her  manner,  moreover,  in  a  person  about  whom  Mrs. 
Grundy  knew  absolutely  nothing,  was  a  trifle  assured. 
She  had  certainly  an — air.  The  wife  of  a  minor  canon 
whispered  the  word  "  dangerous."  Another  lady  said 
that  Mrs.  Armine's  French  was  suspiciously  good. 

It  was,  however,  generally  admitted  that  the  new- 
comer's deportment  and  conversation  with  men,  par- 


130  H  E  R     S  O  N 

ticularly  with  officers,  were  as  they  should  be.  A 
gallant  colonel  described  her  as  "  cold  as  the  Rocky 
Mountains."  She  refused  invitations  to  dine  out,  and 
was  seen  but  seldom  at  luncheons  and  teas.  Children  wor- 
shipped her ;  and  she  gave  a  most  successful  children's 
party. 

Sooner  or  later  she  knew  that  she  would  have  to 
dissemble.  The  day  came  when  an  indiscreet  neighbour 
.asked  outright: 

"  Was  Mr.  Armine  in  the  service?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dorothy  calmly.  Then  she  added  with 
A  composure  slightly  overdone :  "  I  never  speak  of 
Min's  father.  He  left  me  to  explore  a  wild  country 
and  there  he  was  attacked  by  some  savages  and — 
and " 

"  My  dear,  say  no  more.     How  very  terrible ! " 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  moment  when  the  news 
>of  his  death  reached  me." 

'*  I  see  that  I  have  distressed  you,  but  may  I,  as  your 
friend,  repeat  what  you  have  told  me?  " 

"  Please  do,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  People  are  so " 

"  Aren't  they  ?  Well,  tell  them  I  am  the  only  daugh- 
ter of  a  doctor,  that  I  have  hardly  any  relations,  that 
my  income  is  six  hundred  a  year,  that  I  don't  mean  to 
marry  again,  that  I  am  a  supporter  of  Church  and 
State,  and " 

"  The  most  devoted  mother  in  Hampshire." 

"  Yes,  you  can  add  that." 

She  laughed  lightly.  The  neighbour  repeated  the 
story  at  a  score  of  tea-tables,  with  only  reasonable  em- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  131 

belli shment.  Mrs.  Armine's  heart  was  buried  with  what 
was  left  of  a  massacred  explorer  in  Africa.  She 
had  eight  hundred  a  year,  and  could  be  counted  on  for 
subscriptions  to  Church  charities. 

More  than  once  Dorothy  met  people  she  had  known 
during  her  London  days,  but,  if  they  eyed  her  keenly, 
they  failed  to  recognise  her.  She  had  changed.  And 
nowadays  memories  are  short;  we  see  too  many  peo- 
ple, hear  too  many  people:  the  sensitive  plate  of  the 
mind  becomes  blurred.  Her  own  relations  were  buried 
in  East  Anglia.  Sir  Augustus  had  broken  down  in 
health ;  Lady  Helmingham  nursed  him  devotedly ;  Amy 
and  her  Teddy  divided  their  time  and  attention  be- 
tween the  nursery  and  the  kennels.  Somebody  had  said 
that  they  owned  the  handsomest  terriers  and  the  ugliest 
children  in  England.  In  short,  of  the  people  with  whom 
she  had  been  intimate,  Dorothy  now  knew  no  one  except 
Lady  Curragh.  After  that  lady's  return  from  Aus- 
tralasia, she  and  Dorothy  met  regularly.  The  meet- 
ings were  more  or  less  secret,  because  of  Master 
Min,  who,  it  was  agreed,  must  never  know  the  truth 
concerning  his  birth. 

"  He  is  mine,"  said  Dorothy,  "  mine." 

"  Certainly  he  is  yours,  but,  oh,  Dorothy " 

"Well?" 

"When  I  think  of  you  buried  alive " 

"Do  I  look  like  that?" 

"  You  look  astonishingly  well  and  young." 

"  I  feel  young  and  well.  My  dear  Moira,  don't 
•worry  about  me.  I  am  happier,  much  happier,  than 
most  of  the  married  women  I  know.  I  wish  we  could 


H  E  R     S  0  N 

meet  oftener;  that  I  could  visit  you  and  you  visit  me, 
but  it's  too  dangerous." 

This  was  said  in  a  small  room  overlooking  the 
Thames,  after  a  delightful  afternoon  spent  upon  the 
river.  Dorothy  had  just  settled  down  into  her  cot- 
tage. 

"  It  would  be  dangerous,"  Lady  Curragh  assented, 
"  because  Dick  comes  to  my  house." 

"Dick?" 

"  Yes.     And  his  wife." 

"  Tell  me  about  them." 

"  If  ever  a  marriage  was  a  failure !  She's  left  the 
stage :  a  mistake  that !  Hard  work  is  what  she  needs. 
Dick  is  making  a  fortune,  and  she's  spending  it.  There 
are  no  children.  She's  always  been  fiendishly  jealous  of 
him  and  has  an  awful  temper.  He  owns  three  news- 
papers, is  going  into  politics,  and  when  his  party  comes 
into  power  he'll  get  whatever  he  asks  for." 

"  I  am  so  glad." 

"  That  he  has  been  so  successful,  or  that  the  mar- 
riage has — well,  I  won't  say  it,  but  if  you  saw  her 
complexion  you  would  be  sorry  for  him.  It's  fresh  as 
paint,  and  no  mistake.  Dorothy,  he  has  spoken  to 
me  of  you." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  I  am  such  a  poor  liar." 

"  You  underrate  yourself,  Moira." 

"  I  said  that  you  were  living  with  your  little  boy  in 
the  south  of  England.  I  let  him  think  that  you  made 
an  unfortunate  marriage,  quarrelled  with  the  Helming- 
hams,  and  are  now  a  widow." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  133 

"  You  are  much  too  modest  about  your  powers  of 
dissimulation,"  Dorothy  sighed;  then,  with  a  faint 
blush,  she  asked:  "  Did  he  say  anything?  " 

"  Nothing  worth  repeating." 

"  Moira,  you  are  indeed  a  poor  liar.  Now,  tell  me 
exactly  what  he  said." 

"  If  you  will  have  it — he  is  as  impulsive  and  ex- 
pansive as  ever.  He  must  have  been  a  manly  boy,  and 
he  will  always  be  a  boyish  man.  He  rushed  into  mar- 
riage as  he  rushed  off  to  Africa." 

"  He  tried  to  find  me  when  he  got  back." 

"  If  you  had  not  buried  yourself  in  France ! 

Oh,  the  whole  story  is  such  a  muddle ! " 

"  The  beginnings  of  most  lives  worth  the  living  are 
muddles." 

"  I  have  nothing  of  the  philosopher  in  me.  Some- 
times I  think  you  must  have  been  a  tiny  bit  cold." 

Dorothy  laughed. 

"  Men  can't  stand  that,"  said  Lady  Curragh.  "  I 
couldn't  have  let  him  slip  through  my  fingers  as  you 
did." 

"  And  what  would  have  become  of  Min  ?  " 

"We  can't  go  into  that." 

"  But  we  must  go  into  that.  If  it  had  to  be  done  all 
over  again,  I  should  do  what  I  did.  Nothing  else  was 
possible  for  me.  Now,  let's  talk  of  something  else." 

It  was  after  Min  began  to  attend  Miss  Mirehouse's 
day-school  that  he  asked  the  first  question  concerning 
his  sire.  Urchins  are  fond  of  boasting  to  each  other 
about  their  fathers.  Min  had  a  friend,  a  certain  Billy 


134.  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Parflete,  whom  he  asked  permission  to  present  to  his 
mother. 

"  Mummie,  he's  awfully  decent,  and  perfectly  mad. 
If  I  might  bring  him  home  next  Saturday?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  red  hair?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  admire  it." 

"  His  father  is  a  banker.    Was  my  father  a  banker?  " 

"  No." 

"What  was  he?" 

"  An — explorer.  By  the  way,  Min,  I  bought  some 
acidulated  drops  for  you  this  morning.  They  are 
in  the  drawer  of  my  writing-table." 

"  Oh,  Mummie,  how  decent  of  you." 

He  ran  off.  Dorothy  sat  with  a  slight  frown  puck- 
ering her  smooth  forehead.  The  wedge  had  entered 
her  heart.  Upon  it  Min  would  hammer  ruthlessly. 
She  might  distract  his  attention  a  score  of  times,  but 
he  would  return,  again  and  again.  That  very  evening 
at  tea,  he  continued  as  if  there  had  been  no  break  in 
the  talk. 

"  What  is  an  explorer,  Mummie  ?  " 

"  Min,   you  mustn't  speak  with  your   mouth  full." 

The  boy  swallowed  his  bread-and-butter. 

"  Now,  Mummie,  what  is  an  explorer  ?  " 

She  told  him.  At  once  she  perceived  that  his  im- 
agination had  grappled  with  her  explanation.  He 
was  keenly  interested.  Authoritatively,  he  announced: 
"  Billy  is  going  to  be  a  banker,  I  shall  be  an  explorer." 

The  idea  obsessed  him  for  a  week.  Pressure  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  Master  Parflete,  who  inconti- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  135 

nently  chucked  his  prospects  as  a  banker,  and  swore  to 
consecrate  his  life  to  Darkest  Africa.  Min  and  he 
made  wonderful  lists  of  such  things  as  explorers  might 
reasonably  hope  to  bring  him  to  their  mothers.  One 
will  suffice  as  a  sample.  Dorothy  put  it  away  in  her 
desk. 

550  birds  of  paradise. 

1000  elephants'  tusks. 

1000  lions'  skins. 

75  necklaces  of  grizzly  bears'  claws. 

A  lot  of  gold  dust  in  a  sack. 

One  stuffed  savage. 

One  stuffed  giraffe. 

The  stuffed  savage  was  part  of  Master  Parflete's 
spoil.  Being  perfectly  mad — as  has  been  said — he 
insisted  upon  that,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  assign 
it  a  place  in  the  hall  of  his  father's  house.  Min  added 
the  giraffe  out  of  exasperation,  because  Parflete  would 
not  give  way  about  the  savage. 

The  result  of  this  you  can  divine.  Min  asked  end- 
less questions.  His  father  became  flesh  and  blood. 

"  Was  he  very  brave,  my  father?  " 

"  Very  brave." 

"  And  handsome?  " 

"  Very  handsome." 

"  Could  he  fight  like  wild  cats?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  just  cause." 

"  Was  he  ever  afraid  of  being  left  alone  in  the 
dark?" 


136  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  When  he  was  a  tiny  mite  he  may  have  been." 

'*  I  don't  believe  he  was ;  I'll  bet  he  wasn't.  You 
was,  once,  wasn't  you,  Mummie?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  O'  course,  I  get  that  from  you.  I  wish  father 
wasn't  dead.  Did  you  love  him  more  than  you  love 
me?" 

Dorothy  hesitated  before  she  answered  the  question. 

"  The  love  I  had  for  him  was  different,"  her  voice 
shook  slightly,  "  and  I  loved  him,  Min,  loved  him  and 
lost  him  before  you  came." 

"  I  'spect  God  sent  me  to  make  up." 

"  Yes." 

He  regarded  her  attentively,  but  said  nothing  at 
the  time.  That  night,  when  she  went  as  usual  to 
kiss  him  in  bed,  he  flung  his  arms  about  her  neck  and 
hugged  her  close.  In  England  he  had  grown  less 
demonstrative.  Now  the  passion  of  his  embrace  almost 
startled  her. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  just  like  him,  Mummie ;  and  I'll 
love  you  even  harder  than  he  did.  Poor  little 
Mummie ! " 

She  lay  down  beside  him  and  held  him  in  her  arms. 
When  she  got  up,  he  said  in  a  quavering  voice : 

"  Please  blow  out  the  night-light." 

"  But,  Min,  you  know  that " 

"  Blow  it  out,  Mummie." 

After  it  was  blown  out,  he  said:  "  To-night,  just  for 
once,  if  you'd  play  the  piano  downstairs " 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

"  Something  gay,  Mumsie." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  137 

Dorothy  went  downstairs  and  played  two  polkas  and 
a  valse;  then  she  stole  up  again.  Min  was  fast  asleep. 
But,  by  the  shaded  light  of  the  candle  she  carried, 
Dorothy  could  see  that  his  lashes  were  wet.  And  she 
divined  that  his  tears  had  been  shed  for  her  out  of 
the  purest  love  that  is  to  be  found  on  earth.  She  knelt 
down,  and  thanked  God  because  this  love  had  been 
given  to  her. 

After  this  incident  Dorothy  determined  to  make 
substance  out  of  shadow :  to  recreate,  for  Min's  benefit, 
Min's  father.  She  was  fully  sensible  that  however 
devotedly  a  boy  may  love  his  mother,  he  models  himself 
and  his  conduct  upon  his  father.  Billy  Parflete,  for 
instance,  insisted  upon  adopting  a  very  slight  limp, 
because  the  banker's  right  leg  was  a  shade  shorter  than 
his  left.  He  loathed  his  own  red  curly  locks,  because 
his  sire's  were  a  dark  brown;  and  he  tried  to  speak 
in  a  deep  bass  voice  when  he  was  alone  with  Min. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  during  this  first  year  in 
England,  a  very  glorified  father  was  created  for  our 
hero.  In  short,  to  know  the  late  Mr.  Armine,  as  his 
son  learned  to  know  him,  might  be  described  indeed  as 
a  liberal  education.  The  hypercritical  will  infer  that 
Dorothy  overdid  it.  Let  us  admit  this  candidly.  Will 
anyone  be  so  lacking  in  charity  as  to  blame  her? 


CHAPTER  IX 

BY  this  time  Dorothy  had  begun  to  believe  that  Miss 
Fairfax  had  disappeared  from  the  earth.  She  had 
made  new  friends,  created  new  interests,  had  adapted 
herself  to  her  English  surroundings  with  the  same 
facility  with  which  she  had  settled  down  in  Champ- 
fleury.  Being  a  creature  of  sympathies  she  was  able 
to  find  friends  and  interests  in  unlikely  places.  She 
had  inherited  from  her  father  an  inordinate  appetite 
for  ministration.  To  read  aloud  to  a  tiresome  old 
woman,  to  soothe  a  fretful  child,  to  carry  a  smiling 
face  into  stuffy,  squalid  cottages,  became  a  pleasure, 
never  a  bore.  "  You  are  entitled  to  no  credit,  my  dear 
Doll,"  said  Moira  Curragh.  "  You  do  these  horrid 
things  because  you  like  to  do  them ;  because  to  leave 
them  undone  would  make  you  uneasy."  Dorothy 
laughed  and  admitted  that  her  friend  was  more  than 
half  right. 

Occasionally,  not  very  often,  she  ran  up  to  town. 
Lady  Curragh  and  she  would  meet  at  the  National 
Gallery,  lunch  together  at  some  quiet  restaurant,  and 
spend  the  afternoon  in  Regent's  Park  or  upon  un- 
frequented reaches  of  the  Thames.  When  Min  re- 
covered from  the  measles,  Dorothy  took  him  for  a 
fortnight  to  Margate,  where  Lady  Curragh  joined 
them. 

"  Here,"  said  Moira,  "  we  shall  be  perfectly  safe." 

138 


H  E  R     S  O  N  139 

It  never  struck  Dorothy  that  other  people  might 
come  to  Margate  to  escape  meeting  the  men  and  women 
of  their  own  set. 

Towards  the  close  of  this  Margate  visit,  Moira  Cur- 
ragh  went  back  to  town,  and  Dorothy  was  left  alone 
with  Min — now  ten  years  old — and  the  faithful  Susan. 
Solomon,  alas !  was  no  more,  but  before  his  decease 
he  had  stamped  his  image  upon  a  son,  who  answered 
to  the  name  of  Benjamin  because  he  happened  to  be 
the  youngest  of  a  litter. 

Dorothy,  accompanied  by  Benjamin,  was  strolling 
upon  the  sands,  listening  to  the  niggers  and  enjoying 
the  humours  of  a  Saturday-to-Monday  crowd.  She 
was  feeling  not  only  extraordinarily  well,  but  suffused 
with  a  sense  of  contentment.  Min  had  recovered  his 
health  and  high  spirits.  Susan  Judkins  had  regained 
a  temper  sorely  tried  during  Min's  three  weeks  of 
illness.  Moira  Curragh  had  left  behind  her,  as  she 
always  did,  an  invincible  conviction  upon  Dorothy's 
part  that  life  in  the  gallimaufry  of  Mayfair  was  not 
worth  the  living.  The  simple  mirth  of  the  "  trippers  " 
was  also  a  factor  in  her  sense  of  well-being.  The  old 
men  and  women  seemed  to  be  enjoying  themselves  as 
much  as  children.  Middle-aged  matrons  were  paddling 
in  the  wavelets ;  a  grandfather  was  drawing  squeaky, 
plaintive  notes  out  of  a  penny  whistle;  a  very  ancient 
dame  in  rusty  black  alpaca  was  placidly  absorbing  what 
is  known  as  "  Hokey-Pokey "  at  one  penny  the 
glass. 

Dorothy  attracted  some  attention  and  a  few  remarks 
not  uncomplimentary.  If  she  happened  to  speak  to 


140  H  E  R     S  0  N 

a  child,  she  was  invariably  addressed  in  turn  as 
*'  Miss."  Moira  Curragh  had  commented  upon  this : 

"  Of  course  you  know,  Doll,  that,  although  you  are 
bursting  with  a  mother's  feelings,  you  don't  quite  look 
the  part.  I  might  pose  as  Cornelia,  but  you  are  still 
the  sylph.  It  is  exasperating,  because  I  would  give 
all  my  diamonds  if  I  could  squeeze  into  your  frocks." 

"  All  the  same  I  feel  older  than  you,"  Dorothy  re- 
plied. 

Walking  now  along  the  beach,  she  was  reflecting  that 
she  was  old.  Her  intercourse  with  Crystal,  her  percep- 
tion of  the  facts  of  life,  of  elemental,  primal  life,  her 
adoption  of  Min,  had  been  paid  for  by  the  sacrifice  of 
youth  and  youth's  charming  illusions.  More,  the  con- 
viction had  been  forced  upon  her  that  the  position  of 
spectator  in  life's  comedy  or  tragedy  was  hers  by 
divine  assignment.  Many  young  women  come  to  this 
same  conclusion  without  Dorothy's  excuse  for  it,  and 
most  of  them,  like  Dorothy,  have  that  same  conviction 
as  rudely  shattered. 

For,  looking  up,  she  met  a  big  man  face  to  face. 

It  was  Dick  Gasgoyne. 

The  effect  of  this  meeting  was  most  plainly  shewn 
upon  Dick,  who,  possibly,  had  never  trained  himself  to 
disguised  his  emotions.  Each  recognised  the  other 
instantly  and  simultaneously.  Afterwards  Dorothy 
often  wondered  whether  or  not  she  would  have  evoked 
sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  turn  aside  and  let  Gas- 
goyne pass,  had  she  seen  him  first. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  held  out  his  hand ;  his  voice  trembled. 

"  Dick." 


HER     SON  141 

"  And,  by  Jove,  that  is  Solomon !  " 

To  cover  his  emotion,  for  he  had  flushed  deeply, 
Gasgoyne  bent  down,  as  soon  as  he  had  released  Doro- 
thy's hand,  to  caress  the  terrier.  Benjamin,  a  dog 
of  intuitions  like  his  distinguished  father,  and  like 
him  also  hypercritical  in  the  choice  of  his  acquaintance, 
welcomed  Gasgoyne  as  if  he  were  a  long-lost  brother. 

"  He  knows  me,"  said  Dick,  with  a  laugh.  "  Good 
Solomon !  Good  faithful  dog !  " 

"  Solomon  is  dead,"  said  Dorothy  gravely.  Her 
voice  sounded  cold. 

"  Dead?  "  repeated  Dick. 

"  Ten  years  have  passed." 

"  So  they  have." 

"  But  dear  old  Solomon  lives  again  in  his  son." 

As  the  word  "  son  "  passed  her  lips  she  remembered 
Min,  who  at  this  moment  might  be  coming  with  Susan 
to  meet  his  own  father.  Her  cheek  paled. 

"  We  must  have  a  talk,"  said  Gasgoyne  abruptly. 
"  I  want  to  hear  all  about  you,  everything.  Come ! " 

His  voice  had  the  same  masterful,  vibrating  ring, 
but  the  ten  years  had  not  dealt  too  kindly  with  him. 
His  black  hair  was  as  thick  as  ever,  but  grizzled.  About 
the  eyes  and  mouth  were  many  lines. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  here?  " 

"  Crystal  ?  No,  Crystal  is  not  here.  I  am  alone, 
that  is  to  say  I  was  alone." 

She  followed  him  obediently  and  in  silence.  It  is 
not  easy  to  find  a  secluded  spot  in  Margate  at  three 
upon  a  mid-summer's  afternoon,  but  the  overcoming  of 
difficulties  was  Gasgoyne's  business  and  pleasure.  He 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

left  the  sands,  crossed  the  shingle,  ascended  to  the 
Parade,  and  hailed  a  small  carriage. 

"  But,  Dick " 

"Get  in." 

The  driver  asked  for  directions. 

"  Drive  into  the  country,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  beg  parding " 

"  Into  the  country,  if  there  is  a  country." 

"  Right,  sir.     I'm  a  bit  'ard  of  'earing." 

Dick  smiled,  as  he  helped  Dorothy  into  the  ram- 
shackle vehicle.  She  had  wondered  why  he  had  chosen 
the  worst-looking  cab  on  the  rack.  Now  she  under- 
stood. Dick  had  picked  out  a  stupid,  stolid  coachman 
on  purpose.  His  cleverness  in  this  trifle  brought  back 
the  old  Dick  with  astonishing  vividness.  It  was  not 
remarkable  that  such  a  man  had  succeeded.  She 
decided  that  Dick,  having,  so  to  speak,  selected 
the  line  of  country,  must  pilot  her  across  it.  She 
would  follow  his  lead.  He  said  nothing  for  a  minute 
at  least;  then,  with  his  usual  abruptness,  he  mur- 
mured in  a  low  voice: 

"  I  know  this  much :  you  married  a  man  called 
Armine;  you  have  a  child,  a  boy;  Armine  is  dead. 
Lady  Curragh  told  me  that — and  refused  to  give  me 
your  address." 

"  Moira  is  still  my  best  friend." 

"  All  the  same  there  was  no  reason  that  I  could  see 
why  we  shouldn't  meet." 

"  That  you  could  see :   perhaps  not." 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  hunted  all  over  England  for 
you  when  I  came  back?  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know,"  his  voice  was  very  sharp, 
"  that  I  found  you." 

"  You  found  me?  "  she  echoed  faintly. 

"  Yes ;  I  tracked  you  to  Touraine." 

"  And  you  never  spoke  to  me?  " 

He  laughed  harshly. 

"  No,  I  bolted.  Being  a  woman,  you  think  I  ought 
to  have  dropped  in  to  tea.  You  were  Mrs.  Armine, 
with  a  boy.  That  was  enough  for  me."  He  paused 
for  a  moment ;  then  in  a  different  tone,  he  continued : 

"  Doll,  bygones  are  bygones,  but  you  didn't  give  me 
a  square  deal.  However,  I'm  not  going  to  reproach 

you." 

"  That  is  very  kind." 

He  looked  at  her  so  sharply  that  she  realised  how 
carefully  she  must  disguise  even  the  inflections  of  her 
voice.  Living  at  Champfleury  and  near  Winchester 
had  slightly  blunted  her  weapons  of  fence. 

He  continued  decisively :  "  I  had  to  record  my  ver- 
dict, that  is  all,  but  for  the  future " 

"Well?" 

"  Doll,  in  the  old  days  we  were  not  only  lovers, 
but  friends.  I  want  a  friend." 

"  You  are  making  an  offer  of  friendship  ?  " 

"  Please  call  it  a  renewal." 

"  I  live  in  a  tiny  cottage  in  the  south  of  England ; 
you  have  just  taken,  I  hear,  a  sort  of  palace  in  Carl- 
ton  House  Terrace." 

"What  of  that?" 

"  Oh,  everything — or  nothing." 


144  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  And  I  am  told  the  Helmingham  people "  he 

paused.  Then  he  added  in  a  different  tone :  "  They 
<;ut  me,  too." 

They  stared  at  each  other  in  silence.  Dorothy  had 
to  pinch  herself  to  make  sure  that  she  was  not  dream- 
ing. Was  it  possible  that  Dick  was  sitting  beside  her? 
She  saw  that  he  had  grown  rather  gaunt.  Prosperity 
had  not  fattened  him.  Then  she  felt  his  hand  upon 
liers. 

"  Doll,"  he  whispered,  "  why  did  you  let  me  drop 
out  of  your  life?  Was  it  because  of  Crystal?  " 

She  released  her  hand.  Faint  colour  flowed  into 
her  cheeks,  as  she  replied :  "  Crystal  had  something 
to  do  with  it." 

"  If  you  had  cared  as  I  cared " 

She  laughed  for  the  second  time.  Gasgoyne  frowned 
heavily. 

"  Oh,  you  women ! "  he  said  scornfully. 

It  was  one  of  the  hardest  moments  of  her  life.  Very 
slowly  she  turned  her  eyes  away  from  his,  and  looked 
seaward.  He  perceived  that  she  was  deeply  moved. 
Was  it  by  regret?  Her  weakness  appealed  to  him 
enormously.  In  a  different  voice,  he  continued:  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  but  it  has  always  puzzled  me  why 
you,  being  the  woman  you  are,  were  in  such  a 
hurry." 

"  A  hurry,"  she  repeated  his  words  mechanically,  to 
gain  time  to  adjust  her  thought.  So  much  hung  upon 
each  word. 

"  Why,  yes ;  you  must  have  married  Armine  almost 
at  once.  Do  you  mind  speaking  of  him?  I  want  to 


H  E  R     S  O  N  145 

hear  all  that  you  care  to  tell  me.  I  am  looking  forward 
to  seeing  your  child.  If  I  had  a  son " 

The  eagerness  in  her  face  startled  him,  as  she  asked 
almost  breathlessly: 

"Is  that  a  great  grief?  You  wish  for  a  son? 
You?" 

"  Am  I  a  monster  that  I  should  not  wish  for  a 

son?  If  I  had  children "  He  checked  himself 

suddenly,  closing  his  lips  with  an  effort  that  did  not 
escape  the  woman  watching  him.  In  his  eyes  lay  a 
look  of  hunger,  quite  unmistakable.  Dorothy  remem- 
bered a  phrase  of  Moira  Curragh's :  "  Mrs.  Gasgoyne 
hates  children." 

"  If  you  would  rather  not  speak  of  Armine " 

Dorothy  answered  hastily :  "  There  is  so  little  to 
tell."  Hitherto,  she  had  skirted  Truth,  had  salved  her 
conscience  with  the  poor  ointment  of  evasion.  It  had 
been  nothing  to  her  that  the  gossips  at  Champfleury 
and  Winchester  had  placed  the  wrong  construction  upon 
her  statements;  it  had  been  something  that  no  actual 
untruth  had  passed  her  lips.  Some  intuition  warned 
her  that  if  Gasgoyne  were  told  the  truth,  his  love  for 
her,  only  scotched,  not  killed,  would  revive  intensely 
magnified,  omnipotent,  irresistible.  His  Caesarean  at- 
tributes had  not  suffered  diminution,  you  may  be  sure. 
What  he  had  lost  in  youthful  beauty,  he  had  gained  in 
strength.  His  glance,  the  grasp  of  his  hand,  the  power 
which  emanated  from  him  even  in  repose,  made  her 
tremble.  A  few  minutes  ago  she  had  reckoned  herself 
old,  a  looker-on  at  life,  with  all  a  bystander's  indiffer- 
ence, or  shall  we  say,  calmness.  Now,  she  was  swept 


146  HER     SON 

away  by  stampeding  thoughts,  by  the  sense  of  her  own 
weakness  and  inexperience. 

In  a  low  voice,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  rattling 
of  the  little  carriage,  she  said  deliberately: 

"  You  spoke  of  my  people  cutting  me.  Why  should 
they  cut  me?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  So  clever  a  man  might  guess." 

"  You  married  what  the  good  Helmingham  folk 
would  call  beneath  you,  eh?  " 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  Gasgoyne,  naturally 
enough,  would  ask  question  after  question,  keeping  her 
on  the  rack.  How  could  she  stop  him?  She  perceived 
one  way  out  of  a  brambly  thicket  of  fibs  and  evasions. 
Blushing,  she  whispered: 

"  Yes ;  I  did.  Oh,  Dick,  don't  ask  me  any  more 
questions.  I  can't  speak  of  Min's  father  even  to  you. 
Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead." 

"  Did  he  treat  you  badly,  neglect  you  ?  What  was 
he  like?" 

"  Perhaps  Crystal  would  have  said  that  he  was  not 
unlike  you."  -^ 

It  was  the  only  taunt  that  passed  her  lips.  It  did 
its  work.  Gasgoyne  stood  up  and  touched  the  driver's 
arm. 

"  Turn  back,"  he  said.     "  And  drive  faster." 

"  Thank  you,"  whispered  Dorothy,  wondering  why 
he  did  not  get  out  and  leave  her.  He  answered  the 
unspoken  question  almost  immediately.  She  wondered 
if  he  had  divined  her  thought. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  child." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  147 

"  Why  ?  "    He  noted  the  quaver  of  fear  in  her  voice. 

"  Why  ?  Because  he  is  yours.  Is  not  that  a  suffi- 
cient reason  coming  from  me?  Do  you  think  I'm  going 
to  behave  as  your  people  did?  " 

"Then " 

"  I  feel  myself  responsible  for  what  has  happened. 
If  I'd  obeyed  my  instincts,  if  I'd  stayed  in  England, 

if Let  me  finish !  I  know  what  men  and  women  are. 

I'm  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  iron  pots,  but  there  are 
times  when  even  iron  melts,  and  because  it  is  iron 
and  heavy  it  sinks  the  deeper.  How  you  must 
have  suffered!  And  yet,  to-day,"  he  regarded  her 
keenly,  "  to-day,  you  look  the  same  Dorothy  Fair- 
fax: the  sweetest,  purest,  kindest  girl  in  the  world. 
Well,  it's  a  mystery,  but  I  know,  I  know,  I  repeat, 
that  I'm  partly  responsible  for  this.  I  left  you  alone, 
when  you  most  needed  a  friend.  Dare  you  deny  it? 
Look  me  straight  in  the  face,  tell  me  you  never  cared 
for  me,  that  you  were  fooling  me,  and  I'll  walk  out 
of  this  trap  and  out  of  your  life.  Now !  " 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  hers,  exacting  the  truth.  She 
wondered  whether  she  ought  to  lie,  but  the  lie  would 
not  pass  her  lips.  Her  faculties  reeled;  she  was 
within  an  ace  of  fainting  outright. 

"  I  am  answered,"  said  Gasgoyne  triumphantly. 
"  You  are  right :  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  I  am 
your  friend,  and  shall  be  your  boy's  friend." 

Min  was  digging  upon  the  sands,  watched  by  the 
faithful  Susan,  when  Dorothy  appeared.  At  once  she 
despatched  the  ancient  handmaid  to  the  hotel.  She 


148  H  E  R     S  O  N 

felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  take  Susan  into  her  con- 
fidence till  a  certain  time  had  elapsed.  Also,  she  feared 
that  Susan  might  protest,  and  protest  would  be  so 
exasperatingly  futile.  Gasgoyne  would  have  his  way. 
She  had  left  him  on  the  Parade,  promising  to  return 
with  the  boy. 

Min's  feet  had  to  be  dried  and  his  stockings  and 
shoes  put  on.  Dorothy  explained  that  she  had  met  a 
friend,  who  wished  to  make  his  acquaintance. 

"  And,  of  course,  Min,  you  will  behave  nicely,  and 
not  talk  too  much.  You  see  this  is  an  old  friend,  who 
knew  me  before  you  were  born." 

"  Is  he  a  man,  Mumsie?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  so  glad.    I  like  men." 

She  tried  to  smooth  his  hair,  which  escaped  in  thick 
curls  beneath  his  hat.  He  wore  sailor  clothes:  blue 
serge  trousers  and  a  white  jumper.  His  skin  was 
burnt  brown  by  the  sun ;  his  eyes  sparkled  with  health 
and  vivacity.  Dorothy  wondered  whether  she  could 
have  been  prouder  of  him,  had  he  been  in  very  truth 
her  own  son.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  her  heart  seemed 
to  stand  still.  She  had  forgotten  the  likeness  between 
father  and  child.  If  Dick  should  see  what  was  so  plain 

to  her !  Ah,  that  was  not  likely.  In  any  case,  the 

risk  must  be  run. 

They  moved  slowly  through  the  crowd  of  trippers, 
Min  hanging  back  to  listen  to  the  chorus  of  the  latest 
"  coon  "  song.  One  of  the  minstrels,  catching  sight 
of  Min's  glowing  face,  made  comical  grimaces.  The 
boy  laughed  joyously,  entering  easily  into  the  humours 


H  E  R     S  O  N  149 

of  the  scene,  acknowledging  the  appeal  to  mirth  and 
holiday-making. 

"  He  made  a  face  at  me,  Mumsie ;  wasn't  it  friendly 
of  him?" 

"  Very  friendly." 

"  Susan  says  all  these  niggers  are  white  men." 

"  Yes,  they're  not  so  black  as  they  paint  them- 
selves." 

She  laughed;  Min  looked  up  into  her  face  with  a 
slightly  injured  expression. 

"Have  you  made  a  joke,  Mummie?  I  don't  see  it. 
Tell  me." 

"  You  wouldn't  understand  what  I  was  laughing 
at,  Min." 

"  You  might  let  me  try,"  he  protested. 

A  minute  later  Gasgoyne's  piercing  eyes  were  upon 
her  and  the  boy.  He  greeted  Min  gravely,  placing  his 
hands  upon  the  boy's  shoulders,  constraining  him  to 
meet  his  glance.  Min  gazed  frankly  and  seriously  into 
the  face  of  his  mother's  old  friend. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Master ?  " 

"  We  call  him  *  Min.'  " 

"Shall  we  sit  down?" 

There  was  a  bench  close  by,  and  the  three  sat  down 
upon  it.  Gasgoyne  stared  hard  at  the  boy. 

"  He  reminds  me  of  somebody,"  he  said,  "  but  not 
of  you,"  he  turned  to  Dorothy. 

"  Mummie  says  I'm  like  my  father." 

Again  Dorothy  blushed.  She  told  herself  angrily 
and  with  humiliation  that  she  was  behaving  like  a 
schoolgirl.  Fortunately  Gasgoyne  would  put  his  own 


150  H  E  R     S  O  N 

interpretation  upon  these  exasperating  blushes.  He 
did  not  appear  to  notice  them,  for  he  still  stared  medi- 
tatively at  the  boy. 

"  Father  was  big,  and  brave,  and  handsome,  and 
good — like  you,"  he  added. 

"  How  do  you  know  I'm  good?  " 

"  You're  Mummie's  friend." 

"  Just  so.  What  a  convincing  reply."  Suddenly, 
he  picked  up  Min  as  if  he  were  a  small  puppy,  and 
placed  him  on  his  knee. 

"  We  are  going  to  be  pals,"  he  declared. 

"  O'  course,"  said  Min.     "  What  am  I  to  call  you?  " 

"  Uncle  Dick,  if  you  like." 

"  That  will  do  very  well,"  said  Dorothy  hastily. 
Again  she  was  struck  with  Gasgoyne's  quick  wit  in 
concealing  his  name.  And  her  sense  of  his  cleverness 
was  even  more  deeply  enhanced  when  he  began  to  talk 
to  the  boy  easily  and  naturally.  Undoubtedly,  he 
wished  to  give  Dorothy  time  to  regain  her  natural 
colour  and  self-control.  Min  prattled  away  gaily; 
Gasgoyne  felt  his  sturdy  little  limbs,  his  firm  muscles. 
Dorothy  knew  what  was  passing  in  his  mind — that  he 
was  wishing  that  such  a  son  had  been  given  to  him. 
If  he  knew ? 

At  the  same  instant,  the  terrible  question  presented 
itself:  Had  the  moment  come  when  she  ought  to  tell 
him.  And  if  she  told  him  everything,  would  he  take 
Min  away?  All  her  plans  began  to  crumble.  Hereto- 
fore, her  decision  to  keep  Min's  birth  a  secret  from  his 
father  had  been  bolstered  by  a  score  of  reasons,  too 
obvious  to  be  recited.  Who  could  doubt  that  in  keep- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  151 

ing  the  child,  she  had  acted  in  the  child's  best  interests? 
And  Dorothy  was  of  too  practical  and  sensible  a  nature 
tjo  regret  the  past.  Right  or  wrong,  she  knew  that  in 
so  far  as  a  mortal  may  she  had  done  what  she  conceived 
to  be  her  duty.  Evil,  not  good,  had  urged  her  once  to 
take  Min  to  Gasgoyne. 

But  now  the  conditions  were  entirely  different. 

As  if  in  a  dream,  she  heard  Gasgoyne  talking  to  his 
son.  They  had  reached  the  inexhaustible  subject  of 
school  life. 

"  We  have  great  fun.  One  fellow,  Billy  Parflete,  has 
a  glass  eye.  And  he  slips  it  in  and  out.  The  other 
morning  old  Mirehouse  caught  us  playing  catch 
with  it." 

"  Did  she  take  away  the  eye,  or  merely  tell  its  owner 
to  mind  it?" 

"  She  gave  us  lines,  but  she  laughed.  She's  not  a  bad 
sort,  old  Mirehouse." 

"Is  Billy  your  chum?" 

"  Yes.  He's  quite  mad.  Nobody  knows  what  Billy 
will  do  or  say  next.  He  doesn't  know  himself." 

"  How  exciting !  " 

"  Isn't  it?  He  has  red  hair  and  freckles.  The  other 
day  you'd  have  simply  died  of  laughing.  Billy's  grand- 
father is  nearly  stone  deaf." 

"  Afflicted  family,  the  Parfletes." 

"  Aren't  they  ?  Billy's  father  has  one  leg  shorter 
than  the  other.  But  the  grandfather  has  a  long  ear 
trumpet.  And  Billy  loathes  speaking  down  it,  because 
he  never  knows  what  to  say.  Just  before  I  got  the 
measles,  Billy's  grandfather  came  to  Miss  Mirehouse's 


152  H  E  R     S  0  N 

to  see  us,  and  old  Mirehouse  told  Billy  to  say  something 
interesting  to  the  old  gentleman.  And  what  do  you 
think  he  said  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine." 

"  Before  all  of  us,  too,"  Min  chuckled.  "  Why,  he 
said  quite  clearly  into  the  trumpet :  '  Cock-a-doodle- 
doo  ! '  You  see,  he's  quite  mad,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Quite,"  Gasgoyne  assented.  He  glanced  at  Doro- 
thy. Her  face  looked  pale  enough  now,  and  about  her 
mouth  were  lines  of  pain.  Gasgoyne  lifted  Min  from 
his  knees,  and  stood  up. 

"  Let's  do  Margate  properly,"  he  proposed.  "  Then 
tea,  eh?  Tea  and  shrimps.  Come  on!" 

"  There's  a  merry-go-round,"  suggested  Min. 

"  Thank  you,  for  mentioning  it.  We'll  have  a  turn 
at  once." 

Min  seized  his  hand,  and  the  three  set  off — surely 
the  strangest  trio  in  all  Margate.  A  delightful  hour 
to  Min  followed.  Gasgoyne  entered  into  the  fun  of 
the  fair  with  the  vivacity  and  enjoyment  which  brought 
back  to  Dorothy  the  hours  of  their  engagement.  Gas- 
goyne's  laugh  was  as  ready,  as  cheery,  as  of  yore. 
When  she  looked  at  him,  her  heart  beat,  her  pulses 
thrilled.  They  visited  the  shooting  galleries,  where 
Gasgoyne's  performance  with  the  rifle  filled  the  small 
boy  with  awe  and  ecstatic  admiration.  Then  there  was 
the  punching  pad,  the  lifting  machine,  the  ascending 
block  of  wood,  all  of  which  registered  in  large  black 
letters  the  result  of  physical  strength.  Min  screamed 
with  delight  when  Gasgoyne  smote  with  wooden  mallet, 


H  E  R     S  O  N  153 

and  the  ascending  block  struck  the  bell  at  the  top  of 
the  pole. 

"  You're  the  strongest  man  here,"  he  said.  "  Isn't 
he?  "  He  appealed  to  the  old  woman  who  was  scoop- 
ing in  Gasgoyne's  pennies. 

"  Of  course  he  is,"  she  replied ;  "  and  you'll  be  as 
strong  some  day,  my  little  gentleman."  She  looked 
at  Dorothy,  then  at  Gasgoyne. 

"  The  very  image  of  his  pa,  too,  if  you'll  excuse 
me,  ma'am." 

After  a  shy  at  the  cocoanuts,  they  had  tea  in  a 
shelter  overlooking  the  sea.  Min,  without  invitation, 
climbed  on  to  his  new  friend's  knee,  and  being  tired 
and  also  somnolently  full  of  shrimps  and  brown  bread 
and  butter,  fell  asleep. 

"  Put   him   down,"    said   Dorothy. 

"  No.  What  a  j  oily  little  chap  it  is,"  he  sighed ; 
the  sparkle  died  in  his  clear  blue  eyes.  Then  he  added 
abruptly :  "  My  God !  to  think  that  he  might  have 
been  ours." 

"  Don't !  "  Dorothy  murmured. 

"  I  pitied  you  half  an  hour  ago,  my  poor  Doll,  but 
now  I  envy  you.  You  are  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
hill.  Tell  me  of  your  life." 

She  described  the  trivial  round,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain humour,  imitating  one  or  two  neighbours,  upon 
whom  the  moss  grew  thick  and  verdantly.  Uncon- 
sciously, each  assumed  the  intimacy  of  old  days.  Once 
or  twice  Gasgoyne  interrupted  her,  catching  her  un- 
spoken thought,  forestalling  her  words  in  that  fashion 


154.  H  E  R     S  0  N 

so  delightful  amongst  sympathetic  friends.  Then,  sen- 
sible that  she  was  letting  herself  go,  that  the  old 
intimacy  was  as  strong,  possibly  stronger  than  before, 
she  paused  and  said  with  slight  confusion :  "  That  is 
my  life ;  and  I  en j  oy  it.  What  is  yours  ?  " 

"  Mine  ?  "  he  laughed  grimly.  "  I  have  my  work ; 
it  interests  me." 

After  a  significant  silence,  he  continued  in  a  slightly 
different  tone :  "  Why  should  I  pretend  with  you  ? 
Outside  of  my  work,  in  which  I  have  had  the  luck  to 
succeed  far  beyond  my  deserts,  I  am  nothing — a 
cypher !  " 

The  distress  in  Dorothy's  eyes  made  him  mutter  half 
an  apology. 

"  It  had  to  be  said.  In  the  old  days  you  could 
draw  the  very  heart  out  of  me  with  a  glance,  and,  by 
Jove!  you  can  do  it  still.  I've  never  whined  to  any- 
body else,  but  somehow  I  had  to  tell  you." 

"  Why  did  you  marry  Crystal  ?  " 

At  last  the  question  was  out — the  question  she  had 
put  to  herself  a  thousand  times. 

"Why?" 

"  Shush-h-h  I    Speak  lower !  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  you'd  thrown  me  over.  A  fool's 
reason.  When  I  crawled  away  from  those  devils  in 
Africa,  more  dead  than  alive,  what  gave  me  strength? 
You.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I'd  have  died  half  a 
dozen  times.  But  I  hung  on.  Doll's  waiting  for  me, 
I  said.  When  I  got  back  to  Sierra  Leone,  I  cabled  to 
you.  The  cable  never  reached  you.  As  soon  as  I 
landed  in  England  I  looked  for  a  letter  from  you.  You 


H  E  R     S  O  N  155 

were  never  out  of  my  head,  night  or  day.  Ask  the  pal 
who  nursed  me  whose  name  was  on  my  lips?  Yours. 
Of  course  I  knew  that  you  had  heard  I  was  dead ;  but  I 
would  have  staked  my  body  here  and  my  soul  hereafter 
that  you  were  still  waiting " 

She  turned  aside  her  wet  eyes. 

"  When  I  reached  England,  I  found  you  had  dis- 
appeared. You  were  not  dead.  I  asked  myself  why 
you  had  cut  all  threads  between  us,  because  I  found  out 
that  you  had  slipped  out  of  sight  before  my  reported 
death.  Was  there  any  answer  but  one?  You  had  no 
use  for  me.  Do  you  remember  my  letter  to  Solomon? 
Did  you  get  it?  " 

It  lay  in  her  desk  at  that  moment,  between  some 
pressed  flowers  that  he  had  given  to  her. 

"Yes;  I  got  it." 

"  And  yet  you  ask  why  I  married  Crystal.  Well, 
Crystal  loved  me,  and  had  remained  faithful." 

Dorothy  shivered.  The  desire  to  speak,  to  justify 
herself,  to  tear  the  scales  from  this  man's  eyes,  over- 
powered her.  Then  she  heard  his  voice,  softened  once 
more,  full  of  tender  familiar  intonations. 

"  And  then  Crystal  told  me  about  the  child " 

"About  the  child?" 

"  I  daresay  that  was  what  decided  you  to  form  other 
ties.  Yes,  she  told  me  how  you  had  come  to  her,  all  you 
had  done.  Then,  when  I  heard  the  child  was  dead " 

"  What !     The  child— dead  ?  " 

"  Didn't  you  know?     Didn't  she  tell  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  The  subject  is   a  sore  one.     It  died,  poor,  little 


156  HER     SON 

thing.  I  wanted,  after  our  marriage,  to  maKe  a  sort 
of  pilgrimage  to  its  grave,  but  Crystal  is  perfectly 
miserable  if  it's  mentioned." 

"  I  see." 

"  All  the  same  the  child  brought  us  together :  a  sort 
of  invisible  bond." 

He  sighed,  moved  impatiently,  and  immediately  Min 
woke  up. 

For  an  instant  he  was  plainly  puzzled  to  find  himself 
in  the  arms  of  a  stranger. 

"Mummie!" 

"  Here  I  am,  Min." 

"  Oh,  it's  Uncle  Dick.  I'd  forgotten."  He  rubbed 
his  eyes.  Dorothy  rose. 

"  We  must  go  back  to  the  hotel.  Thank  you  for  a 
delightful  afternoon." 

She  spoke  composedly,  conscious  that  Min's  eyes 
were  upon  her  face. 

"  Have  you  a  headache,  Mumsie  ?  You  look  tired. 
Good-night,  Uncle  Dick — and  thanks  awfully." 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Gasgoyne.  He  suddenly  realised 
that  they  were  escaping;  he  did  not  even  know  their 
address  in  Margate.  "  We  must  make  plans  for  to- 
morrow." 

"  To-morrow?  "  repeated  Dorothy. 

"  I  invite  you  both  to  a  picnic." 

Min  clapped  his  hands. 

"  Mumsie,  won't  that  be  simply  splendid?  You  are 
a  nice  Uncle  Dick." 

«  But » 


H  E  R     S  O  N  157 

"  I  insist.  I  leave  in  the  afternoon.  Don't  refuse ! 
What  difference  can  it  make  ?  " 

With  some  hesitation,  impelled  partly  by  Min's  en- 
treaties, Dorothy  consented  to  name  time  and  place. 
Gasgoyne  entered  both  in  a  small  notebook.  Then, 
he  took  leave  of  them,  and  walked  swiftly  away.  Min 
gazed  after  him,  eyes  and  mouth  agape  with  admira- 
tion and  affection. 

"  He  is  just  right,"  he  declared.  "  You  know, 
Mumsie,  I  shouldn't  have  minded  a  bit  if  Uncle  Dick 
had  been  my  father.  Mumsie " 

To  his  surprise,  Dorothy  had  picked  him  up  sud- 
denly and  hugged  him.  Such  a  demonstration  from  an 
undemonstrative  woman  startled  the  child.  But  he 
returned  her  kisses  with  ardour. 

"  If — if,  Min,  Uncle  Dick  had  been  your  own  father, 
do  you  think  you  would  have  loved  him  more  than  you 
love  me  ?  " 

"  Never,  Mumsie,"  he  replied  sympathetically, 
"  never !  O*  course,  I  couldn't  love  anyone  as  I  love 
you." 

She  felt  his  hot  little  lips  upon  her  cheek  and  was 
comforted. 


CHAPTER  X 

[A.FTEB  Min  was  in  bed  and  asleep,  Dorothy  told  the 
faithful  Susan  what  had  passed.  Somewhat  to  her 
surprise,  Susan  betrayed  neither  astonishment  nor 
regret. 

"  I  knew  you'd  meet,  sooner  or  later,"  she  said 
calmly. 

"  Susan,  if  you  could  have  seen  them  together ! 

!And  all  the  time,  something  was  urging  me  to  tell  him, 
and  if  I  tell  him,  will  he  take  Min  away?  " 

Susan  considered.  Age  had  not  blunted  her  tongue 
or  her  perceptions. 

"  He  might  take  him  away,"  she  said  presently. 
"  Anyways  you  can't  afford  to  run  no  risks,  ma'am," 
her  thin  lips  tightened.  "  It's  rather  late  to  speak 
now." 

"  He's  very  rich.  He  could  give  Min  what  I  can 
never  give  him." 

"  Can  he  give  him  a  mother's  love  and  tenderness  ? 
Not  he!  Master  Min  is  'yours,  Miss  Dorothy;  my 
mind's  clear  on  that.  If  ten  thousand  fathers  wanted 
him  and  could  give  him  the  world  and  the  glory 
thereof  I'd  send  'em  all  packing." 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne  is  not  very  happy  at  home." 

"  He  told  you  that?  Then  I  think  very  little  of  him. 
I'm  an  old  maid,  but  I  know  something  of  men.  He'll 
be  asking  you  to  be  extry  kind  to  him." 

"Susan!" 

158 


H  E  R     S  O  N  159 

"  Yes,  I'm  Susan ;  and  I've  served  you  for  thirty 
years.  He  oughtn't  to  have  said  that.  Did  he  ask 
questions?  Did  you  have  to " 

"  I  stopped  his  questions.  He  is  not  likely  to  ask 
any  more." 

"Oh,  isn't  he?" 

"  And  after  to-morrow  we  shan't  meet  again." 

"  Then  you  are  meeting  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  For  the  last  time." 

"  And  you  think  you  know  Mr.  Gasgoyne?  "  Susan 
sniffed  very  aggressively,  but  Dorothy  remained  si- 
lent. Later,  when  Susan  was  brushing  her  hair,  she 
said  lightly :  "  You  have  a  conscience,  Susan." 

"  Yes,  m'm ;   I  hope  so." 

"  And  it  is  clear  on  this  point :  Min  is  mine,  not 
his?" 

"  I  say  that  the  child  belongs  to  the  woman  who 
saved  his  life  before  he  was  born,  and  has  been  an  angel 
of  love  and  tenderness  to  him  ever  since." 

"  These  are  sweet  words,  but  you  are  pulling  my 
hair  horribly." 

Susan  faced  her  mistress,  brush  in  hand.  She  waved 
it  dramatically,  as  if  it  were  a  sword. 

"  You  asked  me  if  I'd  a  conscience  just  now — a  nice 
question,  too.  Well,  is  it  my  conscience  or  my  common- 
sense  that  tells  me  that  the  worst  as  could  happen  to 
Master  Min  would  be  to  learn  that  you  wasn't  his 
mother,  that  all  these  years  you'd  been  pretendin'  with 
him?  " 

"  Pretending?  " 

"  He'd   think   it   was   that.      It's   my   belief  you're 


160  H  E  R     S  O  N 

thinking  at  this  moment  more  of  Mr.  Gasgoyne  than 
of  Master  Min." 

There  was  so  much  truth  underlying  this  that  Doro- 
thy winced. 

Next  day  dawned  clear  and  warm.  A  light  breeze 
tempered  the  heat  of  the  sun  and  dimpled  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  sea.  Dorothy  and  Min  bathed  early — 
a  quick  dip  before  breakfast.  After  a  disturbed  and 
feverish  night,  the  salt  water  acted  upon  Dorothy  as 
a  sort  of  miraculous  tonic.  She  got  out  of  bed  tired 
and  spiritless ;  hardly  able  to  respond  to  the  boy's 
wild  manifestation  of  delight  because  the  weather  was 
so  fine.  But  she  came  out  of  the  sea,  a  young  woman, 
sanguine,  laughing  at  the  fears  of  the  previous  night, 
and  the  jeremiads  of  Susan  Judkins.  At  breakfast 
Min  said: 

"  Oh,  Mummie,  how  nice  you  look !  " 

"Do  I?" 

"  Your  eyes  are  lovely.  And  the  sun  seems  to  have 
got  into  your  hair.  Mine  is  so  beastly  sticky ;  but 
then  you  didn't  wet  yours,  did  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  daresay  you  wished  to  look  your  very  beauti- 
fullest  to-day,  to  please  Uncle  Dick." 

"  Min,  you  men  are  all  alike ;  you  think  we  women 
make  ourselves  nice  only  to  please  you." 

But  she  blushed  as  she  spoke,  because  she  had  been 
more  than  usually  careful  to  keep  her  hair  dry. 

At  the  hour  appointed  Gasgoyne  drove  up  in  a 
carriage  and  pair.  Inside  were  two  hampers. 

"How  many  people  have  you  asked  to  lunch?" 


HER     SON  161 

"  Two,"  he  replied  promptly,  "  but  to  me  those  two 
are  a  big  crowd.  Besides,  this  is  a  special  occasion." 

He  laughed  gaily,  conscious  perhaps  that  he  also 
was  looking  and  feeling  his  best.  Dorothy  found  her- 
self admiring  his  general  appearance  of  maturity 
lightened  by  the  inherent  boyishness  which  would  be 
his  if  he  lived  to  become  a  centenarian.  The  sun 
brought  out  every  line  upon  his  face,  but  these,  she 
reflected,  were  the  scars  of  a  fighter,  of  a  conqueror. 

"  You  look  stunning,  Doll ;    doesn't  she,  old  boy  ?  " 

Min,  delighted  at  being  addressed  as  "  old  boy," 
responded  fervently.  Susan  came  out  carrying  wraps ; 
Gasgoyne  shook  her  by  the  hand  and  enquired  after  her 
health. 

"  You've  not  forgotten  me,  Mrs.  Judkins  ?  " 

"  You're  not  one  as  is  easily  forgot,  sir,"  replied 
Susan  grimly. 

Disapproval  of  the  jaunt  expressed  itself  in  firmly- 
compressed  lips  and  hair  drawn  tightly  back  from  the 
temples. 

"  What  a  fine  day  we  have,"  continued  Gasgoyne. 

"Fine  enough,  sir;  we'll  hope  it  will  end  as  it's 
begun.  Shall  I  put  in  an  umbrella,  m'm?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Dorothy.  "  The  sight  of 
it  would  remind  me  that  it  .might  rain." 

Benjamin  expressed  sympathy  with  this  sentiment 
in  a  sharp  bark.  He  had  jumped  into  the  carriage  as 
soon  as  it  arrived,  sitting  up  on  the  front  seat,  beg- 
ging. He  wanted  to  make  sure  of  his  invitation. 

"  That  tyke  makes  me  forget  everything,"  said  Gas- 
goyne. 


102  H  E  R     S  0  N 

Susan  sniffed.  "  He  makes  me  remember  every- 
thing," she  muttered  to  herself,  as  she  went  back  into 
the  hotel. 

They  drove  off,  very  gaily,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  piano  organ  and  Benjamin's  barks.  Passing  down 
the  Parade,  every  man,  woman,  and  child  who  saw  them 
smiled  pleasantly.  People  go  to  Margate  to  enjoy 
themselves,  and  each  individual  pleasure  party  justi- 
fies itself  as  being  part  and  parcel  of  the  universal 
happiness. 

"  Really  we  are  doing  nothing  more  than  our  duty," 
said  Gasgoyne. 

He  told  Dorothy  that  he  had  heard  of  a  secluded 
cove  a  few  miles  away,  whither  they  were  bound. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  such  a  place,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  if  there  is,  our  driver  will  find 
it,  because  a  double  fare  hangs  upon  his  discovery  of  it. 
This  fellow  is  the  guide,  philosopher  and  friend  of 
all  honeymooning  couples." 

"  Dick,  how  little  you  have  changed  in  some  things." 

"  We  are  going  to  *  walladge  '  to-day." 

The  once  familiar  word  brought  a  pang  to  Dorothy's 
heart,  and  a  question  to  Min's  lips. 

"What  does  'walladge'  mean,  Uncle  Dick?" 

"  What !  You  have  never  heard  it  ?  Why  your 
mother  invented  it  only  yesterday." 

"  Only  yesterday  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  it  was  only  yesterday."  He  interpreted 
the  word,  explaining  that  it  might  be  used  in  a  mental 
and  spiritual  sense. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  163 

"  You  see  we  are  going  to  soak  ourselves  in  a  good 
time." 

"  Uncle  Dick,  why  didn't  you  come  before?  " 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to." 

Dorothy  lay  back  smiling:  well  content  that  Dick 
and  Min  should  sustain  the  talk.  After  all,  how  fool- 
ish it  would  be  not  to  soak  herself,  like  the  other  two, 
in  this  good  time,  which  might  never  come  again:  for 
the  night's  vigil  had  bound  with  brass  her  determina- 
tion to  keep  herself  and  Min  out  of  Gasgoyne's  way. 
They  had  met  this  once,  like  ships  crossing  in  mid 
ocean  and  bespeaking  each  other.  Susan  was  right: 
for  her  to  be  seen  in  Gasgoyne's  company  was  to  court 
disaster. 

They  drove  on  through  the  soft  summer  air  with 
the  sea  sparkling  on  their  right  and  the  pleasant  green 
country  on  the  left.  In  the  meadows  the  hay,  just 
cut,  lay  in  long  lines  to  dry ;  the  scent  of  it  floated  to 
them  mingled  with  the  pungent  odour  of  the  sea.  Big 
wains  moved  slowly  across  the  fields,  and  the  sound  of 
the  haymakers'  voices  alternated  with  happy  inter- 
mittences  of  silence. 

"  Our  driver  is  going  to  earn  his  double  fare,"  said 
Gasgoyne.  "  It  is  hard  to  believe  we  are  not  more 
than  five  miles  from  Margate." 

Presently  the  road  descended  sharply,  and  they 
found  themselves  close  to  a  tiny  cove,  with  brown 
spreading  sands  in  front  of  it,  and  some  trees  border- 
ing a  small  stream.  The  driver  pulled  up. 

"  Here  ye  are !  " 


164  H  E  R     S  O  N 

They  descended:  congratulating  their  guide  and 
themselves.  The  spot  was  charming,  and  within  rea- 
sonable distance  of  a  tavern  where  the  horses  could 
be  baited.  The  hampers  were  carried  to  the  trees  and 
one  of  them  unpacked. 

"  What  can  be  in  the  other?  "  said  Min. 

"  If  you  survive  the  enormous  luncheon  you  are  about 
to  eat,  you  will  find  out,"  said  Gasgoyne  solemnly. 
"  Now  then,  you  and  I  must  wait  on  your  mother ;  she 
is  the  queen  of  the  feast ;  and  we  are  her  humble  slaves. 
Come  on ! " 

Out  of  the  hamper  he  pulled  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

"  There's  ginger  pop  for  you,  Min." 

They  laid  the  cloth,  and  set  upon  it  varied  deli- 
cacies :  the  best  to  be  procured  in  Margate. 

"  Dick,  how  extravagant  you  have  been !  " 

"  Doll,  the  best  in  the  world  is  not  too  good  for  us 
to-day." 

"  Mummie,  we  shall  have  the  indigest,"  said  Min. 
Then  he  added  naively ;  "  I  don't  mind.  Susan  says 
*  Enough's  as  good  as  a  feast,'  but,  oh,  Uncle  Dick, 
I  have  just  wanted  to  try  the  feast  once!  " 

"  Give  your  mother  some  salmon  and  mayonnaise. 
I'm  going  to  open  the  fizz." 

The  meal  was  a  tremendous  success.  Dorothy  said 
little,  but  a  good  listener  in  a  party  of  three  is  indis- 
pensable. Benjamin  attended  strictly  to  business;  he 
performed  all  his  father's  tricks  and  one  or  two  of 
his  own:  cleaning  the  plates  conscientiously  without 
using  either  hot  water  or  cloths. 

"  Ben j  amin  is  still  hungry,  Uncle  Dick." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  165 

"  Happy  Benjamin,"  murmured  Gasgoyne.  He  lit 
a  long  cigar,  and  gazed  steadily  at  Dorothy. 

"  Enjoyed  it?  " 

Min  answered  incredulously :  *'  How  can  you  ask 
such  a  question  ?  " 

"  We  have  walladged,"  said  Gasgoyne  solemnly. 

"  But,  Uncle  Dick,  what  is  in  the  other  hamper? 
Not— tea?  " 

"  No.     Toys." 

"  Toys!  "  shouted  Min.     "  Oh,  Uncle  Dick !  " 

The  second  hamper  was  unpacked  with  even  greater 
enthusiasm  than  the  first.  It  held  priceless  surprises; 
a  model  of  a  racing  yacht,  a  knife,  a  small  box  of  con- 
juring tricks  and  a  gun-metal  watch.  Dorothy  pro- 
tested, but  Gasgoyne  laughed  cheerily. 

"These  are  arrears:  just  arrears.  The  watch  is  a 
cheap  one,  Master  Min ;  but  it  will  teach  you  how  to 
take  care  of  a  better  later  on.  I  daresay  you  will 
be  able  to  sail  your  cutter  on  that  pool  over  there." 

The  boy  ran  off  after  thanking  Gasgoyne  effusively. 
The  man  laughed,  looking  at  Dorothy  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

"  I  hate  to  tell  a  youngster  to  make  himself  scarce," 
he  murmured. 

"  You  thought  of  that  when  you  bought  the  boat  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Now,  Doll,  we  can  talk."  But  for 
a  moment  he  regarded  her  attentively;  then  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone,  he  said  quietly :  "  The  possession  of  that 
jolly  kid  has  made  you  a  beautiful  woman " 

"  My  dear  Dick,  don't  let's  waste  precious  time  talk- 
ing nonsense." 


166  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  I  have  learnt  to  detest  mere  surface  prettiness, 

long  lashes,  regular  features !  But  you?  Gad! 

you're  a  wonder." 

"  Dick,  before  the  boy  comes  back  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  we  mustn't  meet  again.  I  have  thought  it 
all  out." 

"  So  have  I." 

"  And  surely  you  understand " 

"  That  we  are  not  to  meet  again  ?  Certainly  not. 
This  is  the  first  of  innumerable  '  walladges.' ' 

"  It  is  the  last,"  she  said,  with  a  shade  of  irrita- 
tion. 

Gasgoyne  threw  away  his  cigar,  stood  up,  and  came 
quite  near. 

"  You  were  never  a  stickler  for  conventionality, 
Doll." 

"  Go  on." 

"  That's  it.  I  mean  to  go  on ;  and  I  won't  look  back. 
I  always  try  to  profit  by  my  past  mistakes  and  the 
mistakes  of  others." 

"  An  excellent  receipe  £or  success  as  the  world 
measures  it." 

M  Just  so,  as  the  world  measures  it,  but  I  don't 
happen  to  use  the  world's  footrule.  At  least  not  in 
private.  Between  ourselves,  strictly  between  ourselves, 
I  look  upon  myself  as  a  colossal  failure.  Do  you 
know  that  I've  enjoyed  the  last  two  hours  more  than 
any  two  hours  I've  spent  since  you  and  I  parted?  " 

"Oh!" 

"  I  am  stating  a  fact.  You  are  clever  enough  to 
draw  the  correct  inference.  I've  worked  like  a  slave, 


H  E  R     S  0  N  167 

now  I  want  to  take  it  easy — now  and  then,  not  often, 
but  once  a  month  or  so." 

"  You  must  have  other  friends  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiling  grimly.  All 
the  boyishness  and  gladness  had  faded  out  of  his  strong 
face,  as  he  stood  looking  down  upon  her.  Of  a  sudden, 
pity  for  him  flooded  Dorothy's  heart.  She  divined,  as 
he  knew  she  would,  all  that  he  left  unsaid. 

"  I  offered  you  my  friendship  yesterday,"  he  con- 
tinued. She  confronted  his  glance  with  eyes  as  steady 
as  his. 

"  You  did,  Dick.  And  I  lay  awake  last  night,  think- 
ing that  it  was  the  most  unfriendly  thing  you  could  do." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  of  Min." 

He  was  quick  to  see  the  joint  in  her  harness.  "  Oh, 
because  of  Min,  eh?  If  it  were  not  for  Min,  we  might 
become  friends  again?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Well,  I'll  say  this  to  you,  if  Min  were  my  son,  I'd 
do  what  I  could  for  him,  of  course,  but  I'm  hanged 
if  I'd  let  him  interfere  with  my  own  life  and  happi- 
ness. I  should  be  more  interested  in  myself  than  in 
Min." 

"  I  see,"  said  Dorothy  thoughtfully.  She  heard  Gas- 
goyne's  rather  impatient  tones : 

"  I  have  never  quite  understood  you,  Dorothy." 

"  That  is  perfectly  true.  Fortunately,  considering 
that  I  am  a  woman,  I  understand  myself.  My  dearest 
friend  never  visits  me  in  my  own  house;  nor  do  I  go 
to  hers." 


168  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  You  count  Moira  Curragh  your  dearest  friend  ?  " 
"  She  came  to  me  in  my  trouble.     You  said  just  now 
that  I  was  never  a  stickler  for  conventionality.     But 
surely  you  know  that  the  man  or  woman  who  strays 
a  hair's  breadth  beyond  the  line  which  society  has  drawn 
must  sooner   or  later  be  punished  for  being   out  of 
bounds.     Perhaps  my  punishment  is  that  now  I  must 
walk  in  chains  because  of  my  former  freedom." 
"  You  look  as  if  you  hugged  your  chains." 
For  an  instant  her  eyes  blazed ;  then  the  self-mastery 
of  ten  years  came  to  her  defence.     She  lowered  her 
lids. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Gasgoyne,  with  real 
feeling.  "  I  was  a  brute  to  say  that ;  but  it  may 
serve  to  show  you  what  a  power  you  still  have  over 
me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  tenderly.  It  was 
a  lover,  not  a  friend,  who  looked  deep  into  her  eyes, 
trying  to  read  what  message  lay  there  for  him.  She 
released  herself  quickly;  but  he  saw  that  she  trembled, 
that  she  was  frightened.  Her  next  words,  spoken  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  confirmed  this. 

"  It  is  you  who  have  the  power,"  she  faltered.     "  Oh, 
Dick,  be  generous !     Leave  me  in  peace !  " 
"  I  have  the  power  ?     You  admit  that  ?  " 
The  gladness  and  even  triumph  in  his  voice  told  her 
what  a  blunder  she  had  made.     Her  teeth  closed  over 
her  lip  in  annoyance.     This  was  the  result  of  living  out 
of  the  world,  in  quiet  places  among  quiet  people  who 
talked  of  their  sport,  their  servants,  their  children,  and 
what  they  read  in  a  daily  newspaper.     He  continued 


H  E  R     S  O  N  169 

quickly,  as  if  he  wished  to  follow  up  an  advantage 
gained ;  the  natural  instinct  of  the  fighter. 

"  Doll,  dear,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  you  did  in 
haste  what  I  did.  Great  Heaven !  you  were  not  the  sort 
of  girl  to  wear  the  willow.  You  are  flesh  and  blood, 
not  an  icicle.  Because  I  was  swept  out  of  your  life, 
you  had  to  accept  another  man's  love.  I  know  noth- 
ing about  Armine  except  what  the  boy  tells  me;  and 
you  must  have  told  him.  He  was  strong,  it  seems,  and 
brave,  and  handsome.  But  in  my  bones  I  know  that 
you  didn't  love  him  as  you  loved  me.  Did  you?  " 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  I  was  the  first,"  he  whispered. 

"  You  are  speaking  like  a  madman." 

"  Doll,  did  you  love  this  boy's  father  as  you  loved 
me?" 

She  raised  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  firmly. 

He  drew  back.  Something  in  her  glance  told  him 
•£hat  she  was  speaking  the  truth.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  let  a  faint  laugh  escape  him. 

"  You  are  right ;  I  have  been  behaving  like  a  mad- 
man." 

He  walked  away,  turning  his  back  upon  her.  She 
saw  that  he  was  only  defeated  for  the  instant,  that  he 
would  return  to  the  assault;  and  her  knees  were  as 
wax,  her  heart  melting  within  her.  If  she  raised  her 
hand,  he  would  be  at  her  feet.  And  why  not  ?  A  sud- 
den recklessness  seized  and  shook  her.  The  life  she 
had  found  sufficient  burst  like  a  pretty  toy  balloon. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  as  if  its  petty  round 


170  H  E  R     S  O  N 

of  small  duties  and  amusements  were  strangling  her. 
A  vision  of  life  as  it  might  be  lived  with  Dick  arose 
like  an  exquisite  mirage  in  a  desert.  In  Winchester 
men  and  women  eyed  her  askance.  Her  own  people 
believed  her  to  be  a  light  woman.  She  had  the  name, 
and  now  the  game  itself  was  offered.  Dick  was  rich, 
powerful,  sure  to  succeed  greatly  anywhere.  Under 
kindlier  skies,  in  the  Colonies  or  America 

She  covered  her  eyes.  Dick  was  still  increasing  the 
distance  between  them.  If  he  turned,  he  would  read 
her  and  know. 

"Mummie!" 

Min,  breathless  and  flushed,  stood  before  her.  Too 
excited  to  notice  her  agitation,  he  gasped  out: 

"  My  boat  is  sailing  away,  Mummie.  I  shall  lose 
it.  Uncle  Dick— Uncle  Dick !  " 

Gasgoyne  turned  as  Dorothy  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  We  must  rescue  Min's  boat,"  she  said  gravely. 
"Come!" 

Min  ran  back,  as  they  followed  quickly.  Dorothy 
said  gently :  "  We  ought  not  to  have  left  him." 

Gasgoyne  met  her  glance. 

"  You  do  hug  your  chains,"  he  said  abruptly ;  "  and 
your  chains  are  his  arms." 

The  errant  boat  was  captured. 

"  I  nearly  lost  it,"  said  the  grateful  Min.     "  Oh, 
Mumsie,  it  was  an  awful  moment,  wasn't  it?  " 
"  Awful." 
"  You  looked  nearly  as  frightened  as  I  was." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  171 

That  night,  when  she  bade  him  good-night,  the  child 
lifted  his  sleepy  eyes  to  hers. 

"  Hasn't  it  been  a  perfectly  splendid  day,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  But  it  might  have  been  quite  spoilt  at  the 
end,  mightn't  it?  " 

"Yes." 

She  answered  soberly,  knowing  that  the  day  had  not 
been  spoilt.  For  her  was  the  sweet  consolation  of  a 
child's  kiss;  but  Gasgeyne  had  gone  away  frowning. 


CHAPTER   XI 

DOROTHY  returned  to  Rosemary  Cottage  three  days 
afterwards.  Gasgoyne  left  Margate  for  town  upon 
the  evening  after  the  picnic.  The  question  of  a  future 
meeting  was  not  raised  between  them,  but  at  the  last 
moment  Dick  had  said :  "  You  must  let  me  see  some- 
thing of  your  boy.  When  he  goes  to  a  public  school, 
I  shall  run  down  and  tip  him.  I  should  like  to  give 
him  his  first  gun." 

"  You  mustn't  spoil  him." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  have  much  opportunity.  Good- 
bye." 

Disagreeable  months  followed.  She  picked  up  old 
habits,  old  conventions,  with  the  curious  sense  that  they 
had  grown  stale  and  unprofitable.  Mind  reacting  upon 
body  produced  a  physical  lassitude  very  hard  to  over- 
come. For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  began  to  suffer 
from  insomnia  and  headache.  Her  interest  in  reading 
grew  attenuated.  The  written  word  seemed  so  trite, 
so  cheap.  Susan  Judkins  looked  at  her  in  pitying 
but  discreet  silence. 

"  She'll  get  over  it,"  she  reflected ;  "  we  all  do." 

In  her  youth  Susan  had  kept  company  with  a  dash- 
ing artilleryman,  who  had  forsaken  her  for  an  older 
and  much  plainer  woman  with  savings.  Susan  had 
pined.  She  could  remember  perfectly  that  the  taste 
went  out  of  even  beef -steak  pudding;  but  it  had  come 

172 


H  E  R     S  O  N  173 

back.  The  artilleryman  took  to  drink,  and  her  rival 
suffered  blows  and  infidelity.  And  yet  Susan  was  not 
as  grateful  as  she  should  have  been  that  she  had  escaped 
such  a  monster.  In  her  hands  he  might  have  risen,  not 
fallen. 

Dorothy  told  Moira  Curragh  of  her  meeting  with 
Gasgoyne,  and  of  the  picnic,  but  of  what  had  passed 
between  them — nothing.  That  astute  lady  drew  con- 
clusions from  this  silence  not  very  wide  of  the  mark. 
She  had  seen  Gasgoyne,  who  had  said  much  concerning 
Min  and  exasperatingly  little  about  Dorothy.  This, 
also,  was  significant.  Lady  Curragh,  however,  was 
emphatic  in  applauding  the  wisdom  of  keeping  Min's 
true  parentage  a  secret. 

"  He  would  give  anything  for  a  son,"  Dorothy  had 
said. 

"If  he  knew " 

"  And  he  could  give  Min  everything  which  I  can- 
not." 

"  Ah,  now,  Doll,  why  put  it  in  that  way  ?  Say  to 
yourself  that  you  give  the  boy  all  that  he  can't." 

Dorothy  did  not  mention  that  letters  had  passed 
between  them.  The  first  arrived  about  a  month  after 
the  meeting  at  Margate,  pat  to  a  moment,  when  she 
was  feeling  wretchedly  blue  and  forlorn.  In  it  Gas- 
goyne wrote  nothing  that  might  not  have  been  pro- 
claimed from  the  top  of  Winchester  cathedral ;  but  the 
letter  was  so  personal,  so  vivid  a  presentment  of  the 
writer — more,  of  the  trained  writer — that  Dorothy, 
after  reading  it,  had  felt  that  she  had  been  listening  to 
the  man's  voice.  After  some  hesitation  she  answered 


174  H  E  R     S  O  N 

it,  stipulating  that  such  correspondence  should  be  in- 
termittent. He  did  not  write  again  for  six  weeks. 

Often  his  name  and  more  often  his  wife's,  appeared 
in  the  society  papers.  Dorothy  was  continually  read- 
ing paragraphs  about  Mrs.  "  Dick  "  Gasgoyne.  Her 
wonderful  frocks,  her  jewels,  her  entertainments,  were 
described  at  length.  She  had  become  a  personage. 

Upon  this  also,  you  may  be  sure  that  Lady  Curragh 
had  a  word  to  say. 

"  Dick  pays  for  these  things.  He  doesn't  care  what 
becomes  of  his  money.  Why  should  he?  " 

Dorothy  thought  of  Min. 

She  had  signed  a  will,  long  ago,  leaving  her  twenty 
thousand  pounds  to  the  boy;  but,  of  late,  realising 
how  magnificently  Gasgoyne  could  provide  for  a  son, 
she  had  told  herself  that  twenty  thousand  pounds  was 
not  much.  She  began  to  compute  with  misgiving  col- 
lege bills.  Her  savings  amounted  to  little,  so  little 
that  some  imp  of  mischief  suggested  the  expediency 
of  increasing  them  by  changing  her  investments.  The 
head  of  the  firm  of  solicitors  who  managed  her  affairs 
died  about  this  time,  and  his  son  and  successor  agreed 
with  his  client  that  three  per  cent,  was  paltry  interest. 
[Acting  under  his  advice,  Dorothy  experienced  the  de- 
lights of  a  flutter.  It  happened  that  her  adviser  was 
in  a  position  to  know  that  Canadian  Pacifies  were  likely 
to  rise.  They  did  rise  to  such  an  altitude  that  Dorothy 
made  several  hundreds  of  pounds. 

This  unexpected  piece  of  good  (or  ill?)  fortune  put 
to  flight  megrims  and  lassitude.  The  colour  came 
back  to  Dorothy's  cheeks  and  into  her  life,  which  had 


H  E  R     S  O  N  175 

become  a  sort  of  interminable  drab  perspective.  An 
acute  intelligence  rose  in  arms  to  vanquish  the  bulls 
and  bears  of  the  market-place.  Her  luck,  at  first,  was 
quite  amazing.  She  had  taken  her  winnings  wherewith 
to  gamble,  and  leaving  her  original  fortune  intact 
decided  to  employ  a  regular  broker.  Most  amateurs 
begin  this  way. 

If  she  had  told  Gasgoyne,  he  would  have  nipped  the 
bud  of  speculation  with  a  few  frosty  words  of  com- 
mon sense.  Naturally,  she  did  not  tell  him,  nor  anyone 
else.  Her  transactions  absorbed  and  amused  her,  but 
so  far  as  the  business  part  was  concerned,  they  exacted 
only  a  few  minutes  of  her  time.  She  made  no  change  in 
her  life;  although  keen-sighted  neighbours  noted  an 
improvement  in  her  appearance. 

It  would  be  tedious  and  irrelevant  to  give  the  de- 
tails of  this  particular  phase,  which  came,  of  course, 
to  the  usual  and  sudden  end.  Dorothy  lost  every  penny 
she  had  made  and,  in  the  effort  to  recover  her  win- 
nings, half  of  the  precious  twenty  thousand  pounds. 
Then  she  realised  her  folly. 

Her  income  being  cut  in  half,  she  began  to  study 
seriously  the  art  of  cheeseparing.  To  many  excellent 
persons  this  affords  greater  rapture  than  music,  sculp- 
ture, or  painting.  A  penny  saved  is  not  only  a  penny 
made,  but  also  a  coveted  object  added  to  an  ever- 
increasing  coin  collection.  In  moments  of  depression 
your  honest  cheeseparer  can  always  hearten  himself  up 
by  smelling  and  touching  the  parings.  Dorothy,  need 
it  be  said,  had  no  such  blessed  consolation.  She  loathed 
her  parings.  She  found  herself  blushing  when  she 


176  H  E  R     S  O  N 

began  to  offer  her  friends  milk  instead  of  cream  with 
their  tea ;  she  actually  shed  tears  when  she  found  her- 
self mending  and  remending  Min's  underclothing,  now 
no  longer  of  the  best  quality.  But  she  faced  the  move 
from  her  enchanting  little  cottage  to  a  semi-detached 
villa  in  Winchester  with  a  valiant  smile,  imposing  upon 
Min's  credulity  to  such  a  stupendous  extent  that  he 
told  Parflete :  "  The  mater  really  en j  oyed  it." 

The  move  and  her  altered  circumstances  cost  Doro- 
thy more  than  secret  pangs.  She  lost  several  acquaint- 
ances who  made  it  a  point  of  conscience  not  to  call 
upon  persons  occupying  semi-detached  villas.  Being 
a  sensitive  creature  she  felt  this,  although  she  scoffed 
at  the  deserters  rather  indiscreetly.  A  harder  matter 
to  bear  was  the  patronising  sympathy  and  pity  of  some 
of  the  wives  of  the  clergy  who  lived  in  and  about  the 
Cathedral  Close. 

Upon  the  other  hand,  both  Susan  Judkins  and  Min 
behaved  with  exemplary  fortitude  and  serenity. 

"  I  lost  the  money  gambling,"  said  Dorothy  to  her 
handmaid. 

"  It  was  yours  to  do  what  you  liked  with,  m'm." 

"  It  was  Min's,  Susan." 

"  Fiddle-de-dee ! "  exclaimed  Susan,  who  with  in- 
creasing years  allowed  herself  greater  liberty  of 
expression.  Then,  somewhat  shamefacedly  she  added: 
"  When  I  was  walking  with  Alfred  "  (Alfred  was  the 
artilleryman)  "  I  lost  four  pound  fifteen  a-betting  on 
racehorses ! " 

"You,  Susan?" 

"  Yes,  me.     Never,  never  more  than  five  shillings  at 


H  E  R     S  O  N  177 

a  time,  too.  I  felt  very  sinful  when  the  money  was 
gone,  but  I've  said  since  that  anyway  I  'ad  my  little 
bit  o'  fun." 

Min  offered  his  consolation. 

"  Oh,  Min,  I've  lost  a  lot  of  money,  and  I'm  going 
to  turn  into  a  horrid  stinge." 

Min  looked  serious  but  not  miserable. 

"  Mumsie,"  he  declared,  "  you've  often  told  me 
that  nothing  was  really  lost  that  might  be  found  again. 
When  I'm  big  we'll  hunt  for  your  money  and  find  it, 
by  Golly!" 

Meanwhile,  Min  had  been  removed  from  Miss  Mire- 
house's  select  academy  for  children,  and  for  some 
months  had  been  attending  an  excellent  preparatory 
school  situated  high  up  on  Winchester  Hill,  where  the 
fees,  alas  !  were  high  also.  At  all  costs,  Min  must  remain 
at  this  school,  whither  Master  Parflete,  also,  had  been 
sent  at  the  same  time.  The  question  now  agitating 
Dorothy  was :  "  Would  Min  be  able  to  pass  into  Win- 
chester as  a  Colleger?  "  Mr.  Williamson,  Min's  master, 
said  that  the  boy  had  the  ability  to  pass  any  reasonable 
exam,  but  that  his  mind  seemed  to  be  set  upon  distin- 
guishing himself  at  games  rather  than  work.  Still,  he 
would  do  his  best.  Gasgoyne  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
take  upon  himself  the  cost  of  Min's  schooling.  "  If  I 
allowed  him  to  do  that,  I  should  have  to  tell  him  the 
truth,"  Dorothy  reflected.  She  wrote,  declining  the 
offer  with  many  thanks. 

At  this  crisis  in  her  and  Min's  fortunes,  they  made 
a  new  friend.  The  other  half  of  the  villa  was  occupied 


178  H  E  R     S  O  N 

by  a  Mrs.  Heseltine  and  her  son,  David,  one  of  the 
masters  at  Winchester  College.  David  was  a  tall,  thin, 
quiet  man,  himself  a  Wykehamist,  but  one  who,  accord- 
ing to  authority,  had  not  fulfilled  the  promise  of  a 
rather  remarkable  youth.  He  had  distinguished  him- 
self as  Prefect  of  Hall,  taking  a  scholarship  at  New 
College  when  he  went  up  to  Oxford,  and,  later,  obtain- 
ing a  fellowship  at  Oriel. 

Friends  and  contemporaries  said  that  David  had 
gone  too  fast  at  first.  Certainly,  he  moved  slowly 
enough  now,  and  spoke  slowly,  as  if  effort  of  any  kind 
had  become  distasteful  to  him.  Wykehamists  as  a 
body  confessed  that  they  could  not  understand  Hesel- 
tine, but  it  was  admitted  that  he  was  not  to  be  ragged, 
or  rather  that  it  was  not  prudent  to  rag  him,  because, 
on  occasion,  he  could  move  and  speak  with  startling 
and  disastrous  alertness.  He  possessed,  too,  a  cer- 
tain Socratic  acuteness  in  leading  on  men — Wyke- 
hamists are  always  men — to  make  fools  of  themselves, 
when  he  would  smile  not  unkindly  but  with  a  sort  of 
exasperating  omniscience,  as  if  he  had  seen  motley 
long  before  it  was  made  visible  to  other  eyes.  Knaves 
and  fools  gave  him  a  wide  berth. 

Mrs.  Heseltine,  on  the  other  hand,  displayed  with 
pride  the  mental  and  physical  energies  which  her  son 
was  at  some  pains  to  conceal.  She  was  a  small,  brisk, 
indefatigable  person,  of  a  cocksureness  in  regard  to 
whatever  concerned  herself  or  her  neighbours  which 
aroused  amazement  and  too  often  resentment. 

A  source  of  unlimited  amusement  to  Dorothy,  who 
admired  her  sincerity,  Mrs.  Heseltine,  from  the  begin- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  179 

ning  of  their  acqaintance,  had  said  everywhere  that 
Mrs.  Armine  was  a  charming  and  distinguished  woman 
and  the  most  devoted  of  mothers.  When  she  repeated 
this  in  David's  hearing,  a  twinkle  might  be  discerned 
in  his  mild  blue  eyes,  too  heavily  lidded  to  belong  to 
a  man  of  action.  He  knew  that  Dorothy's  charm  and 
distinction  were  synonyms  for  the  tact  and  sense  of 
humour  which  prevented  her  from  contradicting  his 
mother.  He  would  have  admitted,  however,  that  her 
devotion  to  Min  had  captured  Mrs.  Heseltine's  esteem 
and  affection. 

As  time  passed  Dorothy  came  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
the  Heseltines.  She  suffered  at  first  from  the  lady's 
inordinate  curiosity.  Fortunately,  this  curiosity  took 
the  not  uncommon  form  of  asking  more  questions  than 
could  possibly  be  answered;  fortunately  also,  Mrs. 
Heseltine  suffered  from  a  slight  deafness  which,  for 
the  world,  she  would  not  have  acknowledged.  You  will 
see,  then,  that  a  clever  woman  might  take  discreet  ad- 
vantage of  these  infirmities.  Dorothy  never  forgot  her 
neighbour's  first  call,  after  she  had  left  Rosemary  Cot- 
tage. Mrs.  Heseltine  bustled  in  at  an  hour  when  she 
was  certain  of  finding  Dorothy  at  home  and  alone. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  so  here  you  are !  What  a  pretty 
paper!  And  not  too  expensive,  I  daresay?  What? 
Eighteen  pence  the  piece?  Twelve,  not  nine  yards,  I 
trust?  And  chintz  curtains  to  match  it?  No  economy 
there,  if  they  have  to  be  calendered.  You  had  to  cut 
your  carpet,  of  course.  Heart-breaking,  yes,  and  a 
lovely  Axminster,  isn't  it?  You  have  let  your  excel- 
lent parlour-maid  go,  I  notice;  Mrs.  Judkins  opened 


180  H  E  R     S  O  N 

the  door.  Well,  well,  if  what  everybody  says  is  true, 
I'm  so  sorry  for  you.  What?  My  dear,  I  didn't  say 
I  believed  what  everybody  said.  And  I  told  the  dean 
himself  that  I  was  sure  you  would  tell  me  the  truth 
yourself  in  good  time,  and  I'm  not  a  sieve.  You  must 
let  me  help  you.  Economy  is  my  cheval  de  bataille.  I 
like  to  air  my  French  with  you,  my  dear,  because  you 
speak  it  so  beautifully.  You  must  have  spent  years 
and  years  abroad.  What?  Oh,  oh,  indeed!  In  Tou- 
raine,  you  say.  Yes,  yes,  that  is  in  the  south  of 
France,  isn't  it?  I  hope  you  weren't  tempted  to  invest 
your  money  in  foreign  securities.  The  Funds  are  the 
only  thing  for  me.  What?  You  didn't?  How  wise! 
You  will  miss  your  pretty  garden,  but  the  look-out 
here  is  not  without  interest.  One  sees  everybody  pass- 
ing. Really,  I  believe  you  can  see  more  than  I  can. 
Now,  about  this  trouble  of  yours ;  you  must  let  me 
share  it.  Not  to-day,  of  course,  but  in  due  time,  as 
I  told  the  dean.  I  feel  such  a  keen  interest  in  un- 
protected women,  because  I  was  left  a  widow  myself 
at  an  early  age.  Canon  Heseltine  died  six  months 
after  my  David  was  born.  And  your  little  fellow? 
Fatherless,  too.  But  I  never  speak  of  these  sacred 
things — except  to  my  friends.  Dear  Mrs.  Armine,  I 
am  sure  that  you  will  regard  me  as  a  friend.  We  have 
so  much  in  common,  and  living  under  the  same  roof. 
It  is  a  tie.  And  you  won't  hesitate  to  practise  the 
piano  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night?  I  have  no 
nerves,  thank  Heaven !  Yes ;  we  shall  be  a  comfort  to 
each  other.  And  if  your  little  fellow  should  be  taken 
ill,  you'll  call  on  me?  I'm  an  excellent  doctor.  Ask 


H  E  R     S  O  N  181 

David.  He  calls  me  a  fuss-pot,  but  he  thinks  me 
perfect,  dear  man.  .  .  ." 

After  the  good  lady  had  departed  Dorothy  lay  down 
for  half  an  hour. 

Further  acquaintance,  however,  revealed  Mrs.  Hesel- 
tine  as  a  gentlewoman,  inasmuch  as  her  curiosity 
stopped  short  of  anything  approximating  malicious 
prying.  She  wished  to  acquire  such  information  as 
she  could  lawfully  come  by,  nothing  more.  She  took 
intense  pride  in  her  own  household  management,  and 
asked  questions  of  others  to  find  out,  primarily,  if 
they  had  succeeded  in  doing  slightly  better  than  she 
had  done  herself.  She  kept  diaries  and  account  books. 
She  could  have  told  you  in  a  twinkling  what  David  and 
she  had  eaten  for  luncheon  upon  any  day  during  the 
previous  decade.  Her  two  servants  regarded  her  with 
awe,  as  possessing  supernatural  powers  of  divination. 

But  if  Dorothy  learned  to  know  and  like  the  mother 
within  a  few  weeks,  it  took  much  longer  before  she 
could  make  up  her  mind  about  the  son.  She  was  sensi- 
ble that  David  was  watching  her,  as  she,  indeed,  was 
watching  him.  They  eyed  each  other  with  calm 
glances,  trying  to  see  beneath  a  too  placid  surface. 
David  hardly  ever  spoke  of  himself.  He  talked  of 
books  and  art.  He  was  something  of  a  naturalist  and 
a  fine  dry-fly  fisherman.  But  his  accomplishments 
oozed  from  him  imperceptibly.  He  never  posed  as  the 
knowledgeable  man,  although  his  memory  was  encyclo- 
paedic. In  his  presence,  Mrs.  Heseltine  would  make 
occasional  blunders;  the  son  never  corrected  her,  never 
disturbed  her  conviction  that  he — as  she  had  put  it — 


182  H  E  R     S  0  N 

esteemed  her  Perfection  in  all  things.  This,  however, 
might  arise  from  indifference  or  indolence.  In  the 
same  quiet,  nonchalant  fashion,  he  paid  his  mother 
such  attentions  as  women  rate  highly.  When  she 
entered  the  room,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  when  she  left 
it,  he  opened  the  door.  He  asked  for  permission  to 
read  a  note ;  he  ran  errands ;  he  refused  dinner  invita- 
tions, because  he  was  unwilling  to  leave  her  alone. 

Dorothy,  noting  these  details,  could  not  determine 
whether  she  admired  such  politeness  or  not.  Some- 
times the  word  "  pernicketty  "  occurred  to  her.  Gas- 
goyne,  so  different  a  type,  had  inspired  an  admiration 
of  qualities  never  to  be  stigmatised  as  "  pernicketty." 
Comparing  the  two  men,  as  she  did  more  often  than 
she  was  aware,  Gasgoyne  dwarfed  Heseltine,  and  yet 
the  seemingly  weaker  of  the  two  had  this  singular 
virtue  about  him :  he  was  a  source  of  strength  to  others. 
With  Gasgoyne  Dorothy  was  ever  conscious  of  in- 
feriority ;  Heseltine,  on  the  other  hand,  inspired  a 
conviction  of  power  still  latent,  of  possibilities,  of  there 
being  a  definite  place  in  the  world  for  her,  which  she 
;alone  could  fill.  In  a  word  he  had  the  faculty  of 
making  others,  most  notably  his  own  mother,  believe 
themselves  to  be  better,  not  worse,  than  they  were. 
From  the  first  he  acquired  an  influence  over  Min,  who 
was  in  slight  danger  of  becoming  a  mother's  darling. 

"  You  think  I  spoil  him?  "  asked  Dorothy  one  day. 

Heseltine  smiled  in  reply. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  too  masterful.  Isn't  that  a  good 
quality  in  a  boy  who  will  have  to  make  his  own  way 
jn  the  world?  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  183 

"  Yes  ;  if  he  masters  himself  first." 

"  You  see  his  faults  plainly." 

"  Because,  perhaps,  they  are  only  surface  faults." 

"  I  daresay  I  am  too  blind." 

"  No ;  but  you  are  too — kind."     He  smiled  again. 

"  But  you  like  him  ?  "  He  detected  the  note  of 
anxiety:  obviously  Mrs.  Armine  wished  him  to  like  her 
son. 

"  Yes ;  I  like  him,  he  is  not  an  ordinary  boy.  Curi- 
ously enough  he  reminds  me  of  a  friend.  There  is  a 
physical  resemblance,  which  is  nothing,  but  there 
is  also  a  moral  and  intellectual  similarity,  rather 
striking." 

"  I  hope  your  friend  succeeded,  did  well." 

"  He  is  famous,"  Heseltine  replied  reflectively.  She 
noticed  that  he  did  not  answer  her  question  directly. 
"  I  have  not  set  eyes  on  him  since  he  left  Winchester." 

"  Since  he  left  Winchester?  " 

She  divined  the  name  of  the  friend,  in  time  to  control 
her  mouth  and  hands.  Heseltine,  however,  was  not 
looking  at  her ;  he  was  looking  back,  seeing  his  friend. 

"What  was  your  friend's  name?" 

"  Gasgoyne.     We  were  in  college  together." 

"  And  you  say  you  have  never  seen  him  since?  But, 
surely,  you  have  written — sometimes." 

"  No.  He  is  a  man  of  many  friends,  as  the  Spanish 
say;  he  dropped  out  of  my  life.  I  should  not  know 
him  if  we  met.  We  do  not  march  upon  the  same  road ; 
perhaps,  really,  we  never  did." 

"  If  you  would  explain  what  you  mean  by  that " 

"  I  have  studied  boys,  Mrs.  Armine.     I  noticed  that 


184  H  E  R     S  O  N 

one  of  the  subtlest  forms  of  attraction  in  early  youth 
is  to  be  found  in  the  affinity  that  establishes  itself  be- 
tween contrasting  characters  and  temperaments.  I  was 
good  at  work;  Gasgoyne  was  clever  enough,  but  he 
devoted  himself  to  cricket  and  football.  I  used  to 
covet  his  successes  and  I  know  that  he  coveted  mine. 
There  was  no  rivalry  between  us." 

"  I  see.  You  spoke  of  contrasting  temperaments. 
Did  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne  covet  your  temperament?  " 

"  I  coveted  his,  then." 

"  Not  now?  " 

"  No." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Heseltine  came  back  to  them. 
Some  detail  of  household  management  had  called  her 
from  the  room.  Shortly  afterwards  Dorothy  took 
her  leave.  Alone,  she  underwent  a  reaction,  was  seized 
with  a  physical  and  mental  rigour  which  left  her  spent 
and  fearful.  She  had  escaped  detection  so  often  that 
she  had  reckoned  herself  hardened  to  the  possibility 
of  it.  If  Dick  had  come  to  her — If  David  Heseltine 
had  met  him 

For  the  moment  she  was  tempted  to  run  away.  Then 
common  sense  told  her  that  a  danger  marked  plainly 
upon  a  chart  loses  three-fourths  of  its  terrors.  In 
unknown  waters  lay,  perhaps,  hidden  reefs  upon  which 
she  might  be  shattered  irretrievably  without  warning. 

Fortified  by  this  reflection,  she  allowed  her  thoughts 
to  return  to  Heseltine' s  first  words:  the  ones  he  had 
spoken  about  Min.  It  came  upon  her  with  overwhelm- 
ing force  that  the  boy  must  have  inherited  from  his 
parents  much  that  was  evil.  Had  she  been  too  kind? 


H  E  R     S  O  N  185 

Min  himself  answered  the  question  more  than  once 
during  the  following  week.  His  master  wrote  to  say 
that  a  little  extra  coaching  would  be  required.  A  few 
hours  of  play  during  the  forthcoming  holidays  would 
have  to  be  sacrificed.  Dorothy  spoke  of  this  to  Mrs. 
Heseltine.  Next  day  David  called  upon  her. 

"  Mrs.  Armine,  will  you  allow  me  to  coach  your  boy 
this  holidays  ?  " 

His  abruptness  startled  her;  his  kindness  and  gen- 
erosity warmed  her  heart.  Seeing  her  embarrassment, 
he  continued  lightly :  "  I  should  like  to  do  it.  An 
hours,  three  times  a  week  with  me,  and  as  much  devoted 
to  preparation.  It  is  agreed,  isn't  it?  " 

"But " 

"  You  must  indulge  my  whim." 

"A  whim?" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  if  we  analyse  our  motives,  shall  I 
confess  that  apart  from  the  pleasure  of  doing  you  a 
slight  service  I  am  really  keen  about  the  boy  himself, 
partly  because  he  is  such  a  cheery  little  chap  and  partly 
because,  as  I  told  you,  he  is  so  endearingly  like  my  old 
friend." 

At  this  point  Dorothy  said  what  she  had  carefully 
rehearsed.  Min  might  speak  of  "  Uncle  Dick "  to 
Heseltine;  he  had  broken  or  lost  the  toys,  but  the 
memory  of  that  happy  day  at  Margate  remained  green 
with  him  as  with  Dorothy. 

"  Yes.  It's  a  rather  odd  coincidence,  but  I  know 
Mr.  Gasgoyne  and  his  wife." 

"  And  his  wife  "  was  a  masterly  addition. 

"  It's  a  small  world,"   said  Heseltine  quietly.     His 


186  HER     SON 

eyes  met  hers  quite  naturally,  but  she  thought  she 
detected  a  dim  note  of  interrogation  in  their  rather 
misty  depths. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  And  although  I  had  not  seen  him  since 
I  was  a  girl  I  came  across  him  about  two  years  ago. 
He  was  very  nice  to  Min." 

"  You  must  let  me  be  nice  to  Min." 

"  I  should  be  a  churl  to  refuse  such  kindness." 

When  she  broached  the  subject  to  the  young  gentle- 
man there  were  ructions.  He  grumbled  and  growled, 
wanted  his  holidays  free,  asserted  that  he  had  worked 
during  the  current  term,  that  he  was  doing  his  best. 
Then,  seeing  a  delicate  frown  upon  Dorothy's  fore- 
head, he  tried  other  methods. 

"  You  darling  little  Mumsie,  I  shall  pass  all  right. 
I  know  I  shall.  Parflete  says  it's  a  sitter  for  me." 

"  Mr.  Williamson,  I  daresay,  does  not  know  so  much 
about  it  as  Parflete." 

"  It  will  be  awful  rot.  I  shall  have  the  sulks, 
Mumsie;  and  you  know  you  won't  like  that." 

"  I  shall  try  to  bear  even  them,  Min.  Oh,  my  dear, 
so  much  depends  on  your  passing." 

"  Mumsie,  I'm  not  a  fool." 

"  You  are  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  me.  The  matter 
is  settled." 

Dorothy  put  her  foot  down  upon  a  squirming  boy, 
who  was  too  astonished  to  protest  further. 

We  will  admit  frankly  that  at  this  period  of  his  life 
Master  Min  was  bumptious.  A  great  many  foolish 
people  told  him  he  was  handsome;  some  added  that  he 
was  clever;  he  knew  that  he  was  strong,  because  he 


H  E  R     S  O  N  187 

could  hold  his  own  with  older  and  bigger  boys.  Wil- 
liamson and  Heseltine  agreed  that  the  young  scape- 
grace was  hard  to  deal  with,  inasmuch  as  his  pleasant 
manner  and  handsome  face  disarmed  wrath  and  indig- 
nation. He  had  inherited  from,  his  parents  an  in- 
vincible optimism  which  is  a  gift  indeed  of  the  gods,. 
provided  always  that  it  is  not  abused.  Also,  he  pos- 
sessed that  other  great  gift,  so  seldom  entrusted  to 
young  creatures,  a  sense  of  humour.  He  could  laugh 
—  and  did  —  at  a  joke  which  told  against  himself, 
Everybody  liked  him,  even  Dumont,  the  French  master. 
One  day  Min  loaded  a  small  cannon  with  gunpowder 
and  blotting  paper  and  fired  it  off  in  the  unfortunate 
man's  ear.  To  Williamson,  Min  explained  :  "  Mon- 
sieur said  he  had  fought  in  the  Crimea,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  whether  he  could  stand  fire." 

"  I'm  going  to  give  him  the  pleasure  of  caning  you," 
said  Williamson. 

But  the  Frenchman  made  Min  feel  cheap  by  letting 
him  off  the  caning. 

"  Mon  enfant,"  he  said,  "you  will  write  out  fifty 
times  these  lines  from  the  immortal  Victor  Hugo: 
'  Quand  je  vois  VAngleterre,  je  suis  fier  d'etre  Fran- 


Thanks  to  Dorothy  he  had  charming  manners  and 
consideration  for  others.  He  abhorred  cruelty,  had 
a  mind  as  clean  as  his  face,  and  was  ever  ready  to  take 
the  side  of  the  under  dog  in  a  fight.  Therefore,  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  add  that  amongst  his  schoolfellows 
he  was  popular. 

During  the  Easter  holidays  in  which  he  was  coached 


188  H  E  R     S  0  N 

by  Heseltine,  he  had  his  first  serious  love  affair.  A 
charmer  with  a  tow-coloured  pig-tail,  pink  and  white 
complexion,  and  China  blue  eyes  led  both  him  and  Par- 
flete captives.  Parflete,  being  red-headed,  had  a  right 
to  consider  himself  inflammable,  but  he  was  chilly  com- 
pared to  Min.  Dorothy  had  sympathy  enough  not  to 
laugh  at  the  boys,  but  she  saw  that  the  violence  of 
Min's  feelings  were  really  amazing;  and  if  Love  did 
these  things  in  the  green  tree  what  would  be  done  in 
the  dry?  A  certain  chill  struck  deep  into  her  heart, 
when  she  reflected  that  a  little  girl  somewhere  or  other 
would  live  to  take  "  her  son  "  from  her. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  holidays  Pride  had  a  fall. 
The  tow-headed  charmer  dared  Min  to  perform 
some  absurd  feat  which  ended  in  disaster.  Parflete, 
who  was  standing  by,  desperately  jealous,  led  Min 
home,  limping  terribly.  The  doctor  said  the  ankle 
was  sprained.  The  coquette  who  caused  the  mischief 
hastened  away  without  offering  her  victim  either  sym- 
pathy or  pity.  Two  days  passed.  Upon  the  morn- 
ing of  the  third  day,  Parflete  called  to  enquire  after 
his  friend's  health,  and  was  shewn  into  the  small  draw- 
ing-room, where  Min  lay  a  grumbling  prisoner  on  the 
sofa.  Parflete  did  not  shake  hands,  but  he  came  close 
to  Min — Dorothy  being  at  the  other  end  of  the  room — 
and  hissed  out,  melodramatically :  "  I  saw  Nellie  this 
morning:  she  kissed  me." 

"What?" 

"  She  kissed  me — there !  " 

Then,  as  the  furious  Min  slipped  a  sound  leg  off 
the  sofa,  Parflete  turned  and  ran.  Dorothy  caught 


H  E  R     S  O  N  189 

him  at  the  gate,  outside.  He  looked  very  anxiously 
behind  her,  but  she  assured  him  that  Min  was  still  on 
the  sofa  and  likely  to  remain  there  for  another  week. 

"  Why  did  you  tell  him  you  had  kissed  Nellie?  " 

Parflete,  with  a  lively  but  shamefaced  recollection 
of  Dorothy's  hospitality,  hung  his  red  head. 

"  If  Nellie  was  kind  enough  to  let  you  kiss  her,  you 
oughtn't  to  tell  of  it.  No  gentleman  kisses  and  tells. 
I'm  ashamed  of  you,  William." 

"Well,  I  didn't  kiss  her.  No  such  luck.  But  I 
wanted  to  make  Min  mad.  Nellie  says  she  won't  marry 
a  man  with  red  hair  and  freckles." 

He  ran  off.  Dorothy  went  back  laughing;  she 
found  Min  uttering  strange  oaths  and  hideous  threats 
of  revenge,  but  when  he  learned  the  truth,  he  admitted 
that  Billy  Parflete  had  scored. 

"  He  had  me,  Mumsie ;  J  wanted  to  kill  him." 

"  Really,  Min,  you  are  too  absurd." 

"  I  wanted  his  blood,  I  did,  I  did." 

Than  she  saw  that  he  was  pale  and  shaking.  At 
once  she  recalled  Crystal,  the  scene  in  the  Doll's  House 
coming  back  with  extraordinary  vividness.  She  had 
supposed  that  he  was  his  father's  son,  all  his,  and 
suddenly  the  mother  had  been  revealed. 


CHAPTER   XII 

WE  regret  to  record  that  Min  failed  to  satisfy  the 
examiners.  The  failure  was  a  grievous  blow  to  Doro- 
thy because  she  had  made  certain  that  he  would  pass. 
To  accentuate  disaster,  the  successful  competitor  who 
made  least  marks  was  coached  by  Williamson,  and  had 
been  considered  even  by  Williamson  inferior  in  ability 
to  Min. 

When  the  list  came  out,  Min  tried  to  meet  disap- 
pointment with  a  valiant  smile.  Heseltine,  moreover, 
spoke  some  words  that  festered  then  and  thereafter: 
words  Min  never  forgot.  The  youth  had  rushed  to 
Heseltine  for  consolation. 

"  I'm  not  in,"  he  announced.     "  Isn't  it  beastly  ?  " 

Heseltine  stared  at  a  flushed  face,  a  mouth  still 
agape  with  astonishment. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  for  Mrs.  Armine,"  he  replied 
slowly. 

"Aren't  you  sorry  for  me,  sir?" 

"  No." 

"  But  I  worked " 

"  At  the  last,  yes.     But — here,  give  me  your  hand." 

He  took  Min's  right  hand,  laying  his  own  left  hand 
upon  the  boy's  shoulder,  staring  down  into  his  eyes. 

"  For  months  and  months  you  slacked." 

"  Sir ! " 

"  Give  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you  didn't,  and 
I'll  offer  sympathy,  plenty  of  it." 

190 


H  E  R     S  O  N  191 

Min's  eyes  fell.  "  Perhaps  I  might  have  worked 
harder  at  first,"  he  admitted  ruefully. 

"  Just  so.  You  saw  your  mother  pinching  to  pay 
your  big  school  bills ;  you  know  that  she  prayed  for 
your  success  night  and  morning  for  the  past  two 
years;  yet  you — slacked." 

The  contempt  in  his  voice  was  the  hardest  thing- 
to  bear  that  Min  had  encountered.  The  flush  died  out 
of  his  handsome  face,  leaving  him  very  pale. 

"  You  hit  me  when  I'm  down,  sir." 

"  Are  you  really  down  ?  " 

Again  his  quiet  blue  eyes  seemed  to  burn  into  Min's 
brain  and  conscience. 

"  You  have  robbed  the  best  mother  in  the  world." 

"  I  shall  live,  I  hope,  to  pay  her  back." 

"  There  you  go  again  with  your  confounded  self- 
assurance.  Live  to  pay  her  back!  And  you  may  be 
knocked  on  the  head  to-morrow.  Pay  her  back — eh? 
How?  Answer  me!  Well,  you  can't  answer,  because 
that  question  is  unanswerable.  Pay  her  back,  indeed ! 
Can  you  pay  back  her  sleepless  nights,  her  innumer- 
able little  acts  of  self-denial?  Oh,  you  English  boys, 
who  think  yourselves  such  splendid  fellows,  who  take 
all  you  can  get  and  give  nothing  in  return,  save,  per- 
haps, kisses  and  words,  both  so  cheap,  who — bah!  You 
make  me  sick." 

He  turned  abruptly,  with  a  derisive  laugh.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  Min  had  ever  seen  this  quiet,  un- 
demonstrative man  display  his  real  feelings.  And, 
listening  to  him,  hearing  his  laugh,  Min  seemed  to 
shrink  and  dwindle  into  nothing,  as  if  Heseltine  had 


192  H  E  R     S  O  N 

pricked  some  gorgeous,  gaily-painted  bladder,  the 
counterfeit  presentment  of  a  jolly  English  boy.  Min 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  his  boasted  strength  failed 
him  at  the  last  moment.  He  fell  upon  a  sofa  and  burst 
into  tears — perhaps  the  first  real  tears  he  had  ever 
shed.  Lying  face  down,  he  felt  Heseltine's  touch  upon 
his  head,  Heseltine's  voice,  quiet  and  kind,  as  he  had 
always  known  it,  in  his  ear. 

"  Now  you  are  down,  my  poor  Min.  Now  I  am  truly 
sorry  for  you." 

While  this  scene  was  taking  place  next  door,  Dorothy 
•was  alone  in  her  bedroom,  feeling  very  miserable.  Min's 
special  coaching  had  exhausted  her  income  and  left  her, 
indeed,  in  debt.  To  send  the  boy  to  such  a  public  school 
as  Winchester  as  a  Commoner  was  utterly  beyond  her 
means;  to  send  him  to  a  cheap  school,  or  to  educate 
him  abroad,  filled  her  with  dismay. 

She  was  looking  at  her  bankbook,  when  Susan  came  in. 

"  Lady  Curragh  is  downstairs,  m'm.  And  Lor' !  you 
ain't  fit  to  be  seen." 

"  I  had  to  come,"  said  Moira,  a  minute  later.  "  I 
read  the  list,  and  knew  how  you'd  be  feeling.  I  shall 
go  back  this  evening." 

She  was  very  plainly  dressed  and  wore  a  thick  veil. 
At  sight  of  her  Dorothy  melted. 

"  Doll,  this  isn't  like  you." 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"  I  think  I  do,  and  that's  why  I  came.  You  must 
let  me  help." 

"Never!" 

"  Curragh  insists." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  193 

"  As  if  I  didn't  know  that,  in  his  way,  he  is  as  poor 
as  I  am.  But  you're  both  trumps." 

"  I'm  sure  we  shall  find  a  way  out  of  the  wood.  How 
isMin?" 

"  Poor  Min ! " 

"  This  may  be  the  making  of  him.  Doll,  you  must 
cheer  up.  And  after  all  there  remains  his — father." 

Dorothy  met  her  friend's  glance,  realising  that  this 
had  brought  her  from  town.  Lady  Curragh  continued 
quickly :  "  He  offered  to  help  before.  It  will  be  noth- 
ing to  him.  I  can  arrange  it." 

"  You  have  seen  him?  " 

"  No." 

"  Moira,  I  can't  ask  him.  I  can't,  I  can't !  If  I 
did " 

"Well?" 

"  I  should  have  to  tell  him  all."  . 

"  And  I  have  taken  this  very  hot  and  dusty  journey 
to  say,  '  Why  not?  '  In  my  opinion  you  must  tell  him 
all  now." 

"  Shush-h-h !   Here's  Min.     Say  something  kind." 

An  instant  later  Min  rushed  in,  halting  in  some  con- 
fusion when  he  saw  Lady  Curragh,  whom  he  was  meet- 
ing for  the  first  time  since  he  was  a  baby  at  Champ- 
fleury. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  she  said,  faintly  smiling,  seeing 
his  likeness  to  his  father :  the  pose  of  his  head,  the  set 
of  his  jaw;  noting,  also,  the  effects  of  recent  storm. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,"  she  added  gravely. 

At  this  Min  burst  out,  with  his  usual  impetuosity : 

"  I  don't  deserve  it ;    I've  been  a  beast.     If  I  had 


194  H  E  R     S  O  N 

worked  properly  at  first — but,  Mumsie,  I've  made  up  my 
mind,  I "  * 

He  paused,  glancing  at  Lady  Curragh. 

"You  can  go  on,  Min.  Lady  Curragh  is  my  oldest 
friend.  She  came  here  from  town  to  sympathise  with 
us." 

"  You  won't  have  to  pay  school  bills  much  longer," 
Min  declared  stoutly.  "  I'm  going  to  sea.  Heseltine 
says  he  can  get  me  a  billet  in  the  merchant  service — 
on  one  of  the  P.  and  O.  boats." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Dorothy. 

"  P.  and  O,"  said  Min,  with  a  twist  of  his  lip.  Moira 
Curragh  looked  at  him  with  greater  interest.  Here 
was  a  youth  who  would  challenge  attention  anywhere. 
Min  continued :  "  I'm  not  going  to  sponge  on  you  any 
longer." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  baby-talk  except  when  we're  quite 
alone." 

"  All  the  same,  I  mean  it.  Heseltine — he  is  a  real 
good  sort,  is  Heseltine — says  that  his  uncle  is  a  Di- 
rector or  something.  The  thing  can  be  worked." 

"  And  what  would  she  do  without  you?  " 

Lady  Curragh  indicated  a  very  forlorn  Dorothy. 
Min  eyed  her  reflectively,  then,  with  the  naivete  of 
youth,  he  added  quickly :  "  Mumsie  '11  feel  it  frightfully, 
of  course,  just  as  I  shall,  but  I  have  to  paddle  my  own 
canoe;  it's  a  little  sooner  instead  of  a  little  later,  that's 
all." 

"  There  is  something  in  what  he  says,"  murmured 
Xady  Curragh. 

The  appearance  of  Susan  with  the  announcement  of 


H  E  R     S  O  N  195 

luncheon  put  a  stop  to  further  discussion.  At  the 
table  Min  recovered  his  spirits.  Dorothy,  however, 
sat  silent,  unable  to  eat,  faintly  smiling  at  the  quips 
of  her  guest,  who  drew  Min  on  to  talk  of  his  successes. 

"  I  won  the  hurdles,  the  two  hundred  yards,  and  the 
long  jump.  That's  some  comfort." 

"  And  you're  captain  of  the  Eleven,  I  hear." 

Dorothy  sighed,  with  a  sense  of  her  own  impotence 
to  present  life  to  this  youngster  in  its  true  proportions. 
Already  he  spoke  of  his  small  successes  as  if  they  coun- 
terbalanced his  stupendous  failure.  His  invincible 
optimism  had  become  slightly  exasperating. 

"  Those  things  don't  count,"  she  said  impatiently. 
Then,  to  her  surprise,  Min  exhibited  humility. 

"  I've  been  an  awful  ass,"  he  confessed.  "  Why  do 
I  see  that  too  late?  " 

"Too  late,"  repeated  Lady  Curragh.  "Rubbish! 
This  failure  must  be  a  stepping  stone  to  success.  I 
used  to  write  that  in  my  copybook.  How  good  this 
omelette  is ! " 

Afterwards,  as  soon  as  the  ladies  were  alone,  Moira 
Curragh  said  emphatically :  "  He  is  a  dear,  Doll ;  and 
he  adores  you.  I  never  saw  a  more  attractive  boy. 
Much  too  good  for  the  merchant  service.  A  propos, 
who  is  this  Mr.  Heseltine?  " 

"  One  of  the  Winchester  masters.  His  mother  and 
he  live  next  door." 

"  I  see,"  murmured  the  other,  but  she  looked  as  if 
she  didn't.  Dorothy  changed  the  subject  rather  ab- 
ruptly. 

"You  and  Curragh  think  I  ought  to  tell  Dick?  " 


196  HER     SON 

"  We  don't  say  '  ought.'    But  he  is  so  rich." 

"  You  always  rub  that  in !  " 

"  Doll,  if  it  came  to  a  choice  between  Winchester  and 
a  P.  and  O.  boat,  eh?" 

"  The  boy  was  talking  nonsense." 

"  Was  he  ?  I  don't  agree  with  you.  It  is  a  way  out, 
and  a  creditable  way.  I  don't  know  that  it  isn't  the 
very  best  way  if  you  really  mean  never  to  tell  Dick." 

"Never?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  it  is  now  or  never.  You  must  see 
that.  It  would  be  so  stupid  to  tell  him  later,  when  the 
opportunity  of  doing  something  vital  had  passed  by." 

"  If  he  should  take  him  from  me " 

She  stood  up,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  lips  quivering 
with  agitation. 

"  As  if  that  is  the  least  bit  likely.  She  wouldn't  allow 
that.  She  poses  as  a  paragon  of  the  virtues  now." 

"  You  don't  understand.  Dick  would  not  take  him 
away  in  that  sense,  but  morally " 

"Morally?" 

"  Well,  I  have  thought — Heaven  knows  I  have  had 
time  to  think ! — I  have  thought  so  often  of  what  would 
happen  inevitably ;  yes,  inevitably.  Dick  is  a  big  per- 
sonality. He  would  capture  Min,  enslave  him.  And 
his  life,  that  luxury,  that  lust  for  power.  And  it's  all 
in  Min.  I've  fought  against  it.  If  I  could  only  add 
that  I  had  prevailed.  But  he  is  his  son — and  hers." 

"And  hers?" 

"  She  crops  out  occasionally.  Well,  now  you  have 
seen  him,  you  recognise  that  the  right  stuff  is  there  for 
the  makings  of  a  man.  And  it  means  so  much,  every- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  197 

thing,  to  him  and  to  me.  And  you  are  right.  If  his 
father  is  to  know  of  his  existence,  it  is  now  or  never. 
But  I'm  afraid;  I  was  never  so  afraid  in  my  life." 

"  You  have  made  me  afraid,  too,"  said  Lady  Cur- 
ragh. 

They  talked  together  for  an  hour  without  resolving 
the  problem.  Then  Lady  Curragh  returned  to  town. 
At  the  last  moment  she  said  to  Dorothy :  "  If  you  wish, 
Dick  and  you  can  meet  at  my  house.  It  will  be  best." 

"  I'll  write.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come 
to  me." 

But  she  did  not  write  for  nearly  a  fortnight. 

During  that  time  indecision  tore  her  in  two,  while 
Min  prattled  gaily  of  P.  and  O.  boats.  He  was  very 
nice  and  tender  with  Dorothy,  seeing  the  lines  upon 
her  usually  placid  face,  and  telling  himself  that  he, 
the  ungrateful  pig  and  beast,  had  caused  them,  and 
that  the  sooner  he  found  himself  in  his  floating  prison 
the  better.  Susan  listened  to  him  frowning,  hear- 
ing the  roaring  gales  and  seeing  waves  higher  than 
mountains. 

"  Susan,  you  look  peevish,"  said  he. 

"  I  never  did  hold  with  sailormen,"  Susan  confessed. 
"  A  wife  in  every  port,  they  say,  and  more  shame  to 
'em !  If  you  love  'em  they're  always  at  sea,  and  if  you 
hate  'em  they're  always  ashore." 

Meantime,  you  will  guess  that  Dorothy  was  asking 
for  a  sign.  Some  women  play  Patience  to  decide  some 
matter  in  which  the  pros  and  cons  are  equally  balanced ; 
many  men  toss  up  a  sixpence.  Finally,  Dorothy  re- 
ceived her  sign,  or  what  she  interpreted  to  be  one. 


198  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Min,  reasonably  anxious  to  know  something  definite 
about  his  future,  said  suddenly :  "  If  my  father  had 
lived  I  wonder  what  he  would  have  done  with  me." 

"  Your  father  ?  I  daresay,  Min,  you  think,  with 
the  vanity  of  your  sex,  that  only  men  ought  to  deter- 
mine these  great  issues." 

"  I  was  wondering  what  he  would  have  decided." 

"And  if  his  opinion  clashed  with  mine " 

"  Mumsie,  how  funnily  you  say  that." 

"  You  would  have  sided  with  him?  " 

Min  kissed  her. 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,  and  you  know  I  wouldn't,  you  rum 
little  Mummie,  but  I  expect  he'd  have  had  his  way. 
Parflete's  father  gets  the  best  of  Billy  and  his  mother 
every  time." 

"  Min,  suppose  I  did  ask  for  a  man's  advice?  " 

"What  man?  Not  old  Parflete.  He's  going  to  put 
Billy  into  the  bank.  There's  Mr.  Heseltine,  but  then 
he's  a  bachelor.  Oh,  I  say,  Mummie,  I've  a  spiffing 
idea,  if  you  want  advice  from  a  man  who  knows  what's 
what,  and  is  a  regular  ripper,  why  don't  you  ask  Uncle 
Dick?" 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  moment ;  then  Dorothy  said 
very  quietly: 

"  You  think  that  would  be  the  wisest  thing  for  me 
to  do?" 

"  I'm  sure  it  would." 

"  Then  I  shall  do  it." 

Accordingly  Dorothy  wrote  to  Lady  Curragh,  and 
asked  her  to  arrange  a  meeting.  When  the  letter  had 


H  E  R     S  O  N  199 

been  despatched  she  felt  easier  in  her  mind,  but  the 
thought  of  the  coming  interview  drove  sleep  from  her 
pillow.  A  worn  and  white-faced  woman  travelled  up 
to  town. 

Min  begged  to  be  allowed  to  come  with  her,  but  she 
refused.  Father  and  son  would  meet  soon  enough,  and 
she  dreaded  Gasgoyne's  impulses.  Let  him  learn  the 
truth  and  digest  it,  before  he  acted  on  it. 

In  her  dressing  bag  lay  the  certificate  of  Min's  birth 
and  Crystal's  letter.  There  had  been  moments  when 
Dorothy  had  longed  to  destroy  this  evidence  which 
proved  that  Min  was  not  her  son.  In  the  event  of  her 
sudden  death,  Min  might  find  it  amongst  her  papers. 
What  a  shock  to  him !  For  poor  Min  was  so  absolutely 
certain  that  he  was  well  born,  although  he  was  not 
snob  enough  to  mention  it,  even  to  Parflete.  But  in  a 
thousand  little  ways  he  had  betrayed  his  pride  in  being 
the  son  of  Dorothy  and  the  man  who  was  good  and 
brave  and  handsome.  Once  he  had  said  seriously :  "  You 
see,  Mummie,  I've  been  jolly  lucky  in  having  such 
decent  parents.  When  I  look  at  you  and  Mrs.  Parflete 
I  feel  awfully  sorry  for  poor  Billy."  He  was  old 
enough  now  to  make  comparisons,  and,  indeed,  Dorothy 
had  trained  him  to  exercise  his  budding  powers  of 
observation.  When  the  "  people  "  of  the  boys  at  his 
school  came  down  to  visit  their  sons,  Min  eyed  them 
keenly ;  and  he  listened  attentively  to  the  evidence  sub- 
mitted by  the  boys  themselves.  "  Mills  has  a  beastly 
pater,"  he  would  confide  to  Dorothy.  "  He  is  a  sort 
of  swell  in  some  Government  office,  but  he  drinks  and 
he  bullies  Mills.  Mills  is  always  glad  when  the  holidays 


200  H  E  R     S  O  N 

are  over."  Or  the  son  of  a  sporting  baronet  might 
excite  the  following  remarks :  "  Druce  is  a  frightful 
sinner.  Sir  George  is  a  reg'lar  rip,  and  he  married 
Druce's  mother  for  her  money.  Druce  knows  it,  because 
he  says  that  Lady  Druce  never  lets  Sir  George  forget 
that.  She  rubs  it  in  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea.  If 
I  had  had  a  mother  like  that,  what  should  I  have  done?  " 

"  I  hope  you  wouldn't  have  criticised  her  with  other 
boys." 

"  I  hope  not,  but  if  I  was  the  son  of  that  sort  of 
old  beast,  I  suppose  I  should  be  beastly  too." 

Dorothy,  you  may  be  sure,  pondered  these  puerilia, 
vowing  to  herself  that  Min  must  never  know  the  truth, 
yet  feeling  in  her  heart  that  it  would  be  revealed  some 
day  in  spite  of  her  precautions  and  self-sacrifice.  It 
was  of  course  inevitable  that  within  the  immediate 
future  he  would  suspect  that  some  mystery  encom- 
passed his  birth  and  his  reputed  father's  death.  Al- 
ready he  asked  questions  very  difficult  to  answer  or 
evade.  One  day  he  said:  "  Haven't  I  a  crest?  What  is 
the  Armine  crest?  Parflete  tells  me  that  all  decent 
people  have  crests." 

"  I've  never  bothered  my  head  about  such  things, 
Min.  We'll  hunt  up  a  crest  for  you  when  you  are 
entitled  to  bear  one." 

"  Mrs.  Parflete  uses  one  on  her  notepaper." 

Dorothy  pounced  on  this  with  delight. 

"Yes?  Now,  between  ourselves,  Min,  I  can  tell  you 
this  much:  I  know  just  enough  about  heraldry  to  assure 
you  that  a  woman  can't  bear  a  crest  at  all.  Mrs.  Par- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  201 

flete  has  no  right  to  use  her  father's  crest,  or  her 
husband's." 

"  What  a  lark !  "  said  Min. 

But  later,  some  months  afterwards,  he  had  returned 
to  the  charge  with :  "  I  say,  there  are  some  Armincs 
living  in  Worcestershire,  and  I  expect  they're  relations 
of  mine.  Tompkinson  junior's  pater  shoots  with  them." 

"  Does  he  ?  Well,  perhaps  you  may  shoot  with  them 
some  day.  I  never  heard  your  father  mention  these 
Worcestershire  Armines." 

"  Hang  it !  I  wish  we  had  some  relations,"  said  Min, 
with  an  odd  glance  at  Dorothy. 

Travelling  up  to  town  she  recalled  his  innocent  ques- 
tions. 

What,  however,  lay  uppermost  in  her  mind  was  the 
fear  that  Dick  might  resent  her  long  silence,  might 
upbraid  her,  deeming  himself  wronged  and  defrauded. 
He  had  ever  held  fast  to  what  he  reckoned  to  be  his 
own,  had  fought  for  it — fiercely.  He  might  be  terribly 
angry.  Setting,  perhaps,  an  extravagant  value  upon 
Min,  she  was  unable  to  appraise  his  value  from  Dick's 
point  of  view. 

Lady  Curragh  received  her,  and  presently  Lord  Cur- 
ragh  came  in:  a  tall,  robust  Irishman  with  all  the 
geniality  and  expansiveness  of  his  race.  Dorothy  had 
not  seen  him  for  fifteen  years,  and  the  change  in  him 
was  rather  startling. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  here,"  he  said,  adopting  the 
slight  brogue  which  he  used  with  his  oldest  friends. 
"  It's  bald  as  a  coot  I  am,  but  the  house  is  the  same  and 


202  H  E  R     S  O  N 

the  people  in  it  are  proud  to  welcome  George  Fairfax's 
daughter." 

He  raised  her  hand  gallantly,  and  kissed  it. 

The  three  lunched  together.  Gasgoyne's  appoint- 
ment had  been  made  for  half-past  two.  He  arrived 
punctually  and  asked  for  Lord  Curragh,  who  had  given 
orders  that  he  was  not  at  home  to  any  other  caller. 
The  gossips  below  stairs  would  think  that  the  great 
man  had  come  on  business.  He  was  ushered  into  the 
library,  connected  by  folding  doors  with  Lord  Cur- 
ragh's  private  room. 

The  moment  was  an  awkward  one.  Dick  advanced 
slowly  to  greet  Lady  Curragh.  Dorothy  laid  down 
her  coffee  cup,  but  remained  sitting  till  the  servant  had 
left  the  room.  She  had  not  seen  Gasgoyne  for  more 
than  four  years ;  and  at  once  she  was  struck  by  the 
change  in  him.  He  seemed  to  have  grown  older  and 
harder.  His  face  had  that  set,  impassive  expression 
which  journalists  described  as  "  Sphinx-like."  He 
moved  rather  ponderously,  the  part  of  a  man  reckoned 
to  be  solid  in  the  world's  market  place. 

Dorothy  rose  to  play  her  part  in  the  comedy,  but 
when  she  felt  the  familiar  clasp  of  Dick's  hand,  some- 
thing seemed  to  come  into  her  throat.  Afterwards, 
Moira  Curragh  told  her  that  she  looked  composed  and 
at  her  ease.  Inwardly,  her  pulses  throbbed  riotously. 
Gasgoyne  turned  from  her  to  shake  hands  with  his 
host.  For  a  couple  of  minutes  the  men  talked  apart. 

"  Come  into  the  next  room,"  whispered  Lady  Cur- 
ragh, leading  her  away. 

"  I  am  so  nervous,  Moira." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  203 

"  We  shall  be  near  you.    As  soon  as  it  is  over,  I  shall 
take  you  for  a  drive." 

She  kissed  Dorothy's  cheek. 

"  Moira " 

"Yes?" 

"  If  he  should  be  furious " 


"  Bah!    It's  not  that  I'm  afraid  of." 

"  Don't  go  yet !  What  are  you  afraid  of?  " 

"  Doll,  dear,  you  must  be  adamant,  if " 

"If  he  claims  Min?" 
"  Don't  be  stupid !    If  he  claims — you." 
Not  waiting  for  an  answer,  Lady  Curragh  went  back 
to  the  library.    Dorothy  could  hear  her  clear  tones  and 
then  Dick's  growl,  which  seemed  ominously  threatening. 
Then  the  door  between  them  opened  and  shut  quietly. 
Dorothy  was  alone  with  Min's  father. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

€TASGOYNE  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  his  voice  indi- 
cated a  self-possession  which  obviously  he  wished  to 
communicate  to  Dorothy. 

"  Doll,  you  look  horribly  worried.  Well,  you've  sent 
for  the  right  man;  I'm  going  to  take  this  worry  off 
jour  face  and  hands  at  once." 

"  Thank  you,  Dick." 

"  Tut,  tut !  Bless  me,  you're  trembling ;  you  mustn't 
let  things  upset  you  so.  I  don't.  Nothing  upsets  me 
now,  not  even  the  new  colour  of  Crystal's  hair." 

He  looked  at  Dorothy  kindly,  but  his  laugh  rang 
false;  and  the  woman  watching  him  divined  that  her 
first  impression  was  correct :  he  had  grown  hard.  Would 
he  be  hard  on  her  ?  With  his  usual  quickness  he  guessed 
part  of  her  thought. 

"  Do  you  see  much  change  in  me?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"  The  truth,  please ! " 

"  Dick,  you  look  as  if  you  had  hardened  yourself 
against  people." 

He  laughed  again,  with  a  curious  note  of  complacence 
mingled  with  derision. 

"  Doll,  you  read  me  easily.  Yes ;  I'm  pretty  tough, 
the  Lord  be  praised !  " 

His  voice  softened  delightfully,  as  he  continued: 

"  You're  worrying  about  the  boy.  By  the  way,  how 
is  he?  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  205 

"  He's  very  well." 

"  Jolly  little  cove !    Let  me  see — his  name  ?  " 

That  he  should  have  forgotten  his  name  came  upon 
her  with  a  shock. 

"  We  call  him  Min." 

"  Yes,  Min,  of  course.  Now,  I've  guessed  your  reason 
for  seeing  me.  I  offered  help  after  that  little  flutter  of 
yours,  and  you  refused  it  most  unkindly.  Now,  you've 
changed  your  mind,  eh?  And  you  mean  to  give  me 
a  great  pleasure.  Let  me  have  my  say.  I  know  what 
your  feelings  are  exactly.  In  my  way  I'm  as  proud 
as  you,  as  unwilling  to  accept  assistance  from  others; 
but,  Doll,  I've  had  to  take  it  often,  and  sometimes  I've 
not  been  able  to  make  any  return.  Once  a  man  who 
befriended  me  at  an  opportune  moment  died  before  I 
could  even  thank  him.  I  was  greatly  in  his  debt.  Now, 
in  helping  you  and  your  boy,  I  want  you  to  feel  that 
I'm  paying  my  debt  to  that  man." 

It  was  delicately  said,  but  Dorothy  was  miserably 
sensible  that  the  speaker  took  an  honest  pride  in  his 
generosity.  Always  he  had  been  a  liberal  giver  of 
money  and  money's  equivalents.  That  his  pride  was 
about  to  be  humbled  she  knew  also,  and  shrank  from 
inflicting  the  blow.  Being  a  woman,  she  tried  to  tem- 
per its  severity  with  words. 

"  Yes,  it  is  about  the  boy." 

He  took  her  hands,  pressed  them  kindly,  smiled  en- 
couragingly, and  led  her  to  the  sofa,  seating  himself 
beside  her. 

"  Dick,  before  we  speak  of  Min,  I  wish  to  tell  you 
something  about  Crystal." 


206  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"Crystal?" 

At  once  his  face  hardened. 

"What  I  am  about  to  tell  you,  you  must  keep  from 
her." 

"  Of  course."  He  laughed  scornfully.  "  You  don't 
think  that  I  prattle  to  Crystal  about  other  people's 
affairs?" 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  this  is  peculiarly  her  affair." 

"  Her  affair  ?  "    His  interest  became  more  acute. 

"  Yes.  Oh,  Dick,  you  mustn't  judge  her  too  harshly ; 
you  must  try  to  remember  that  she  loved  you  and  was 
prepared  to  make  any  sacrifices  to  win  you  back." 

"Can't  we  cut  this?" 

"  No." 

The  decision  of  her  reply  startled  him.  For  the  first 
time  he  looked  upon  her  with  an  entirely  different  ex- 
pression. He  boasted  that  he  was  generally  the  first 
to  discern  a  cloud  in  his  sky. 

"  All  right,  but  please  get  to  the  point." 

"  Min  is  not  my  own  son.  I  adopted  him.  I  never 
married." 

"  What !  You  are  not  a  widow  ?  Armine  is  a  myth  ?  " 

"  I  am  still  Dorothy  Fairfax." 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  hoarsely.  She  saw  that  he  was 
about  to  swoop  on  the  truth. 

"  When  Crystal  believed  you  to  be  dead,  she  placed 
her  baby  in  an  institution  for  nameless  and  fatherless 
children.  Afterwards,  she  was  almost  forced  to  tell  you 
that  the  baby  died;  but  it  lived." 

"  Christ  in  Heaven !    Min  is  my  son ! " 

He  spoke  with  conviction,  rising  in  terrible  agita- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  207 

tion.  Dorothy  rose  also,  trembling,  and  yet  confront- 
ing him  with  an  indescribable  dignity. 

"  Min  is  my  son,"  she  said  simply,  "  in  everything 
except  the  tie  of  blood.  I  adopted  him  according  to  the 
French  law,  and  I  have  tried  to  be  a  true  mother  to  him 
ever  since,  for  your  sake  and  for  his  own  sake — so 
help  me  God !  " 

"  You  have  been  faithful  to  me  always  ?  "  He  almost 
choked. 

She  smiled  tenderly. 

"  Always."  Then,  very  clearly,  she  told  him  the 
story.  When  she  had  ended,  he  sank  back  into  his 
chair,  covering  his  face  with  his  hand.  She  saw  that  he 
was  grappling  with  her  words,  straining,  so  to  speak, 
his  inward  vision  so  as  to  perceive  the  truth  more 
clearly.  She  knelt  down  and  touched  him. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Angry  with  you?  "  He  sprang  up.  Then  she  saw 
that  tears  lay  in  his  eyes.  "  Angry  with  you,"  he  re- 
peated. "  Would  you  like  me  to  go  down  on  my  knees 
and  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  resent  my  keeping  him  to 
myself." 

"  As  if  I  cared  a  tuppence  about  the  child ;  he  is  noth- 
ing to  me,  nothing;  you  are  and  always  were — every- 
thing. My  God !  What  a  woman  you  are !  And  I 

believed  ill  of  you,  I "  He  broke  off  with  a  laugh 

and  a  shake  of  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
shake  off  for  ever  the  incredibly  wrong  impression  he 
had  conceived  of  her.  Then,  in  a  different  voice,  he 
added :  "  The  irony  of  it  eats  into  my  marrow.  Angry 


208  H  E  R     S  O  N 

with  you  ?  Great  Heavens !  You  have  done  more  for 
me  and  mine  than  ever  woman  did  before,  renounced 
love,  reputation,  friends,  family,  for  my  sake,  and  you 
ask  me  if  I  am  angry ! " 

"  You  wanted  a  son,  so  you  told  me." 

"  If  he  had  been  ours,  but  he  is  hers." 

"  He  is  mine.     You  won't  take  him  from  me?  " 

"  Of  course,  you  love  him ;  better  perhaps  than  you 
loved  me."  He  eyed  her  jealously. 

"  Dick,  you  must  put  such  words  and  thoughts  from 
you.  Try  to  remember  that  for  fifteen  years  he  has 
been  all  the  comfort  I  have  had.  Oh,  you  will  be  proud 
of  him  yet !  " 

"  He  stands  between  us,"  said  Gasgoyne  grimly.  "  I 
see  obstacles  clearly,  Doll,  when  I'm  face  to  face  with 
them.  I  told  you  once  before  that  you  hugged  your 
chains.  This  boy  has  taken  my  place  in  your  heart. 
If  it  were  not  for  him,  I'd  make  you  forget,  make 
myself  forget,  the  years  that  the  locust  has  eaten,  but 
this  boy  prevents." 

"And  Crystal,"  she  added  steadily. 

"  Crystal?  You  are  right.  I  had  forgotten 
Crystal." 

She  came  a  step  nearer. 

«  Dick " 

"Well?" 

"  Because  these  chains,  as  you  call  them,  have  been 
placed  upon  us,  because  we  did  not  make  them  for 
ourselves " 

"  We  did  make  them,  and  that's  why  I  want  to  strike 
them  from  us,  if  I  can." 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  But  you  can't." 

"  All  the  same  I  shall  try.  Did  you  suppose  that 
you  could  tell  me  this,  and  that  it  would  end  here? 
Why  did  you  tell  me?  I  forgot.  The  boy  again.  You 
want  me  to  help  him,  to  give  him  the  right  start.  So 
be  it.  I  charge  myself  with  everything.  I'll  settle 
on  him  to-day,  to-morrow,  the  ten  thousand  pounds  you 
lost  on  his  account.  He  shall  be  rich;  my  heir,  if  you 
say  so,  but,  understand,  I  do  it  for  you,  Dorothy,  not 
for  him ;  for  your  son,  not  for  mine.  I  do  not  admit 
his  claim  upon  me  for  such  advantages,  but  you — why 
all  I  have  is  yours." 

"  I  want  him  to  go  to  Winchester,  although  he  has- 
not  worked  hard  enough  to  win  a  scholarship,  as  you 
did." 

"  Agreed." 

"  Afterwards,  the  University,  or  the  Army." 

"  Anything  you  like." 

"  And  he  must  never  know  that  Crystal  is  his  mother." 

"  Eh  ?  Why  shouldn't  he  know  ?  He's  old  enough 
to  know." 

"  Oh,  Dick,  is  any  boy  brought  up  as  he  has  been 
old  enough  to  learn  that  he  is  basely  born?  It  would 
nearly  kill  him.  And  I,  if  you  could  understand,  I 
want  him  to  believe  always,  but  always,  that  I  am  his 
mother." 

"  I  see.     He  is  never  to  know  his  father." 

"  It  seems  too  much  to  ask." 

"  That  depends " 

"  On  what?  " 

"  On  your  powers  of  fibbing  for  one  thing,  on  the 


210  H  E  R     S  O  N 

chance  of  your  not  being  recognised  as  Dorothy  Fair- 
fax for  another,  on  the  good  faith,"  he  sank  his  voice, 
"  of  our  kind  friends  here,  on  your  old  nurse's  discretion. 
Experience  tells  me  that  the  odds  are  greatly  against 
any  secret  being  kept  that  is  shared  by  more  than  two 
persons.  I  see  a  better  way." 

"Yes?" 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  stand  glaring  at  each  other  as 
if  we  were  enemies  instead  of  friends  ?  Sit  down !  " 

They  sat  down  upon  the  sofa.  Gasgoyne  took  her 
hand  for  a  moment,  patted  it  with  a  gesture  he  had  used 
when  they  were  lovers,  relinquishing  it  with  a  reluctant 
sigh,  and  said  quietly: 

"  I  shall  begin  with  a  confession  of  faith.  I  hold 
that  each  man  is  intended  to  be  the  architect  of  his  fate. 
In  that  sense  I  don't  quarrel  with  the  orthodox  inter- 
preters of  the  doctrine  of  Free  Will.  I  believe  also  in 
the  forgiveness  of  sins,  and  in  the  communion  of  saints. 
I  should  be  a  better  fellow  living  with  you.  For  the 
rest,  Christianity,  as  it  has  been  revealed  to  some  ex- 
cellent and  wise  persons,  has  not  been  so  revealed  to  me. 
That  may  be  my  fault,  but  I'm  telling  you  exactly  how 
I  feel.  As  for  the  conventions  of  society,  I  support 
them  unhesitatingly  as  necessary  for  the  civilisation  in 
which  we  live.  They  are,  and  always  have  been,  and 
always  will  be,  subject  to  modification,  and  to  excep- 
tions. We  happen  to  be  exceptions." 

"  Dick,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  It  would 
te  so  much  wiser  and — and  kinder — not  to  say  it." 

"  I  must  say  it,"  he  replied  sharply.  "  We  are  ex- 
ceptions, you  and  I,  inasmuch  as  we  have  the  intelligence 


H  E  R     S  O  N  211 

to  break  the  law,  so  called,  without  injury  to  the  com- 
monwealth for  whom  that  law  was  framed." 

"  Dick,"  she  looked  into  his  eyes,  "  you  swore  before 
God  and  man  to  be  true  to  your  wife.  You  are  about 
to  ask  me  to  help  you  to  break  that  oath." 

"  Yes,  I  swore  to  love,  honour  and  cherish  Crystal 

Wride!  Crystal  who  lied  to  me.  Crystal  who " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  Dorothy  saw  the  passion  rising 
and  swelling  in  him,  and  wondered  at  her  own  calmness. 
Before,  at  Margate,  her  pulses  had  thrilled,  her  knees 
had  trembled.  She  had  known  herself  to  be  as  clay. 
Had  she  changed?  Or  was  it  that  the  potter's  power  to 
mould  her  had  departed? 

"  Dorothy,  are  you  going  to  dismiss  me  again?  God 
forbid  that  I  should  reproach  you  for  what  yon  have 
done,  but  when  you  let  Crystal  stand  between  us  you 
allowed  sentiment  to  overpower  sense.  I  can  say  to  you 
now  what  was  impossible  to  speak  of  to  a  young  girl. 
My  connection  with  Crystal  was  the  inevitable  result 
of  the  artificial  conditions  under  which  we  moderns  have 
to  live.  Between  her  and  me — I  swear  this  to  you — 
the  connection  was  regarded  as  temporary,  as  all  such 
connections  are.  She  deliberately  wrecked  our  happi- 
ness, and  you  let  her  do  it,  because  there  is  too  much 
angel  in  your  make-up." 

"  If  she  had  killed  herself  and " 

"  A  threat !  But  I'm  willing  to  argue  the  case  from 
your  point  of  view.  If  she  had  killed  herself,  what 
then?  Do  you  dare  to  affirm  that  any  law,  human  or 
divine,  would  have  held  me  responsible  for  her  rash 
act?  She  drove  me  from  her.  If  I  had  wrecked  her 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

life,  which  I  did  not,  was  that  a  reason  for  wrecking 
jours  ?  " 

"  How  hard  you  are !  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  hard ;  but,  oh !  how  soft  I'm  going  to  be 
to  you." 

"  Min  lives." 

"The  boy?  Yes,  yes;  we  always  come  back  to  him. 
He  lives.  And  your  coming  here  to-day  proves  that  I 
am  necessary  to  him,  that  you  and  he  want  the  protec- 
tion of  a  man.  But  you  propose  to  play  the  ostrich, 
bury  your  head  in  the  sand.  Mark  my  words,  the 
boy  will  find  everything  out." 

"No,  no!" 

"  He  will,  as  sure  as  Fate.  And  I  say  better  now 
than  later.  Doll,  my  dearest,  have  you  not  considered 
him  enough,  won't  you  do  something  for  me?"  The 
harshness  went  out  of  his  voice.  "  If  you  knew  how  I 
want  you — you  admit  you  loved  the  old  Dick.  He 
was  rather  a  bumptious  ass,  that  old  Dick,  who  walked 
into  this  room  a  few  minutes  ago.  You've  taken  the 
starch  out  of  him.  Doll,  give  me  a  chance  to  make  up 
to  you  for  all  you  have  suffered.  Look  here,  I've  a  little 
plan:  Let  us  be  seen  together  in  Paris,  or  where  you 
will.  Crystal  will  do  the  rest.  When  she  has  divorced 
me,  not  till  then,  I  swear,  you  will  be  my  own  wife, 
and  I  can  force  the  world,  if  you  care  for  the  world, 
to  acknowledge  you  and  honour  you  as  such — 
Dorothy ! " 

The  reproach  in  her  face  staggered  him.  He  caught 
her  whispered  words :  "  And  I  asked  you  to  help  me." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  213 

He  kissed  her  fiercely  before  she  could  prevent  him, 
and  said  with  the  brutality  of  a  strong  man : 

"  Answer  that." 

She  released  herself  quickly,  but  with  a  certain  dig- 
nity. Perhaps  at  that  moment,  for  the  first  time,  he 
recognised  her  superiority  to  him  as  a  fellow-creature, 
and  could  measure  the  distance  between  them.  Morally 
speaking,  as  well  as  physically,  he  had  always  in  a 
sense  looked  down  upon  her,  as  being  a  woman  and 
therefore  necessarily  the  weaker.  His  appeal  to  her 
weakness,  and  her  answer,  revealed  his  own.  A  peculiar 
radiance  shone  in  her  eyes,  as  if  for  the  moment  some 
subtle  emanation  of  the  spirit  triumphant  over  the  flesh 
had  made  itself  visible.  She  gazed  at  him  with  a  pity 
which  pierced,  with  a  sorrowfulness  of  regard  which 
purged. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  Dick,  why  do  you  destroy  yourself  in 
the  eyes  of  the  woman  who  loves  you?  " 

His  eyes  brightened. 

"  You  do  love  me?    You  admit  it?  " 

"  My  love  has  never  failed.  You  must  know  that. 
Have  I  not  given  proofs  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  the  world  you  are  afraid  of,  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Is  it  your  religion  ?     You  were  never  a  Puritan." 

She  made  no  answer.  He  guessed  that  she  realised 
the  fatuity  and  futility  of  trying  to  impose  her  con- 
victions upon  one  who  a  moment  before  had  repudiated 
such  feelings.  But  he  chose  deliberately  to  misinterpret 
her  silence. 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is  your  religion  which  keeps  us 
apart.  At  Margate,  for  a  moment,"  he  saw  her  wince 
and  pursued  his  advantage,  "  at  Margate,  Doll,  your 
religion  did  not  keep  you  from  me.  It  was  the  boy ;  I 
saw  it.  First  and  last  my  son  has  cut  me  out." 

"  If  I  said  tnat  he  was  part  of  my  religion " 

"Eh?" 

A  new  note  in  her  voice  challenged  his  attention. 

"  He  is  part  of  my  religion.  I  wonder  how  many 
women  there  are  in  the  world  to  whom  God  has  been 
revealed,  not  in  gospels  and  creeds,  but  in  the  face  of 
a  child.  I  will  tell  you  something.  When  I  heard  of 
your  marriage,  my  heart  seemed  to  turn  into  a  thing 
of  horror.  A  devil  got  possession  of  me.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  inflict  the  torment  I  suffered  upon  you 
and  her.  And  I  had  my  weapon:  the  child.  I  was 
tempted — ah,  God!  how  I  was  tempted — to  take  the 
child  to  both  of  you — you  were  on  your  honeymoon — 
and  fling  it  and  its  story  and  my  story  in  your  faces. 
For  I  hated  you  and  her  and  the  child,  because  it  was 
yours." 

If  he  had  ever  doubted  her  capacity  for  passion,  for 
intense  feeling,  those  doubts  fled  before  the  flash  of  her 
eyes  and  the  thrill  of  her  voice.  Only  a  woman  who 
had  loved  with  overpowering  strength  and  fidelity  could 
speak  as  she  was  speaking. 

"  And  what  prevented  me,"  she  continued  in  a  gentler 
tone,  "  what  drove  out  my  devil?  The  child.  The  help- 
less child.  Why?  Because  some  Power  greater  than 
the  evil  in  me  looked  out  of  his  baby  eyes.  He  reached 
out  his  tiny  arms  to  me,  who  hated  him,  and  at  his  touch 


HER     SON  215 

I  became  whole.  So  I  say  that  your  son  is  part  of  my 
religion,  but  he  is  more.  I  loved  you  and  I  love  you 
still,  I  must  always  love  you,  and  I  love  him  passionately, 
not  only  because  I  have  nursed  and  cherished  him,  but 
because  you,  the  best  part  of  you,  live  again  in  him, 
and  to  watch  the  growth  of  what  is  fine  and  noble  in  him 
has  been  my  joy  and  solace.  And  now  you  ask  me  to 
destroy  my  work.  Let  me  finish.  If  I  obey  you,  and 
obey  the  lower  half  of  my  own  nature,  if,  to  use  your 
words,  we  are  exceptions  to  a  rule,  can  we  keep  what 
we  have  done  secret  from  him?  Impossible.  Every 
sordid  detail  of  the  divorce  will  be  poured  into  his 
ears ;  sooner  or  later  he  will  know  us  for  what  we  are, 
creatures  of  the  flesh,  and  despising  us  at  first  he  may 
end  by  following  our  example,  and  sink  lower  than  even 
we  have  sunk.  Yes,  you  are  right :  it  is  not  the  world, 
nor  the  saving  of  my  own  soul,  which  keep  us  apart, 
but  your  son." 

She  turned  from  him  and  went  to  the  window,  but  he 
noticed  that  she  trembled  and  moved  with  difficulty.  For 
a  reason  which  physiologists  may  partly  account  for, 
this  evidence  of  weakness  moved  him  more  profoundly 
than  her  strength. 

"  Dorothy " 

"  I  can  bear  no  more ;  you  had  better  go." 

"  Yes ;  I  will  go.  You  have — conquered  even  if  you 
have  not  convinced.  As  for  the  boy,  I'll  do  what  I  said 
and  more:  anything  you  like.  Good-bye." 

His  abruptness  startled  her,  bringing  a  flush  to  her 
cheeks.  She  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  held  for  a 
moment,  and  then  dropped  with  a  sigh.  As  he  was  leav- 


216  H  E  R     S  O  N 

ing  the  room,  by  the  door  which  opened  into  the  hall, 
she  called  him  back.  Her  voice  trembled,  her  bearing 
and  gestures  betrayed  her  nervousness  and  distress.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"  Dick." 

"  Poor  little  woman." 

"  You,  you  say  that  you  will  do — more." 

"  Yes,  yes ;   anything " 

"  You  don't  understand.  The  '  more  '  I  ask  for  will 
be  a  greater  thing  than  the  signing  of  cheques.  You 
are  sure  that  one  day  your  son  will  know  that  you  are 
his  father.  Oh,  Dick,  if  that  day  comes,  let  him  find 
his  father  the  man  I  have  described  him  to  be." 

"  I  see."  He  smiled  derisively,  lifting  his  dark 
brows.  "  You  are  indeed  asking  for  *  more,'  for  much 
more  than  I  can  promise.  I  am  to  behave  myself — eh? 
— so  as  to  be  worthy  of — of  Crystal's  son !  " 

"  It  is  cruel  to  say  that." 

"  I  wish  to  open  your  eyes  to  the  fact  that  I  have  only 
a  half  interest  in  this  young  gentleman,  who  is  to  be 
a  paragon  of  all  the  virtues.  I  am  the  good,  generous, 
noble  fellow,  am  I?  Well,  all  the  newspapers  con- 
trolled by  me  say  so,  so  it  must  be  true,  but  Crystal " 

"  Dick,  Crystal  must  never  know." 

"  I  shan't  tell  her,  you  may  depend  on  that." 

She  heard  his  firm  tread  in  the  hall,  and  the  slam  of 
the  front  door.  Then,  after  a  few  minutes,  Lady  Cur- 
ragh  came  into  the  library.  She  kissed  Dorothy  and 
looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Is  it  well?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  with  him,  Moira." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GASGOYNE,  on  leaving  Lord  Curragh's  house  in  Curzon 
Street,  hailed  a  hansom,  and  drove  straight  to  his  solic- 
itors. Certainly  a  factor  of  his  success  was  the  habit 
of  doing  whatever  he  had  promised  to  do  without  hesi- 
tation and  circumlocution.  Within  an  hour  he  had 
made  arrangements  to  settle  upon  Min  ten  thousand 
pounds,  the  interest  to  be  paid  to  Dorothy  during  the 
boy's  minority.  Then  he  walked  to  his  splendid  offices 
in  Norfolk  Street,  but  before  entering  the  great  build- 
ing, he  paused  to  survey  it :  a  monument  of  his  energy, 
capacity  and  untiring  industry.  To  many  men — and 
Gasgoyne  was  of  such — stones  are  more  eloquent  than 
popular  preachers.  It  tickled  Dick's  vanity  to  think 
that  the  Gasgoyne  Building  would  endure  when  he  was 
dust,  that  in  it  issues  vital  to  the  Empire  would  have 
their  birth,  that  from  it,  as  from  the  vast  establishment 
in  Printing  House  Square,  would  fulminate  messages 
that  might  shake  the  spheres,  that  had  shaken  them 
already. 

He  passed  into  his  own  room,  where  he  found  his  sec- 
retary and  an  editor — both  eager  to  communicate  some 
political  news.  Gasgoyne  listened  to  them  abstractedly, 
nodding  now  and  again,  but  making  no  comments.  As 
a  rule  questions  would  pour  from  his  lips.  Silence 
seemed  almost  confounding.  The  editor  glanced  at  the 
secretary. 

217 


218  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Have  you  heard  anything?  "  he  asked  his  chief. 

"  Have  I  heard  anything?  "  He  laughed.  "  Yes, 
I  have,  but  it's  not  for  publication.  As  for  this  matter, 
you  must  deal  with  it.  Oh,  don't  bother !  I  give  you  a 
free  hand." 

"  It  is  of  the  first  importance,"  murmured  the  editor. 

"  Is  it  ?  The  more  credit  to  you,  if  you  handle  it 
properly."  He  nodded  carelessly,  dismissing  the  editor  ; 
and  then,  turning  to  his  secretary,  added :  "  I  don't 
wish  to  be  disturbed  for  an  hour." 

The  men  went  out  at  once.  The  editor  murmured 
to  the  other :  "  Never  saw  him  look  tired  before. 
What's  up?" 

"  Row  at  home,  I  expect,  but  he's  accustomed  to 
that." 

Left  alone,  Gasgoyne  sat  back  in  his  chair,  closing 
his  eyes,  evoking  the  scene,  carefully  analysing  Doro- 
thy's words  and  their  import.  He  told  himself  that 
he  had  been  premature  in  his  proposals,  that  he  ought 
to  have  listened  to  her,  sympathised  more  fully  about 
the  boy,  and  thereby  paved  the  way  to  another  meet- 
ing. He  had  rushed  in  like  a  fool,  and  he  was  not  a 
man  to  suffer  gladly  folly  either  in  himself  or  in  others. 
With  all  women  these  affairs  were  less  matters  of 
principle  than  of  feeling,  and  feelings  changed. 

Thinking  of  Dorothy  his  face  gradually  softened, 
the  hard  lines  fading  out  of  it.  What  an  adorable 
creature  she  was !  How  tender,  true  and  kind !  With 
her  at  his  side,  what  might  he  not  achieve!  He  had 
loved  her  after  she  had  made  him  believe  that  she  had 
formed  other  ties ;  now,  his  love  increased  enormously 


H  E  R     S  O  N  219 

as  she  shone,  radiant  and  immaculate,  out  of  the  shad- 
ows which  for  so  many  years  had  obscured  his  vision 
of  her. 

"  She  is  mine,"  he  muttered,  "  mine." 

Then,  frowning  deeply,  he  began  to  compare  her 
with  Crystal,  who  had  lied  to  him,  who  had  abandoned 
his  child. 

Before  the  honeymoon  waned  he  had  measured  his 
blunder,  although  pity  and  sympathy  remained.  With 
what  admirable  art  she  had  played  her  part!  And 
because  he,  too,  was  smarting  under  the  scourge  of  fate, 
because  the  loss  of  Dorothy  appeared  too  great  to  be 
computed,  he  had  credited  her  with  like  sensibilities 
and  capacities  for  suffering. 

An  actress — and  nothing  else! 

But  there  was  something  else.  She  had  loved  him. 
Her  love,  it  is  true,  was  almost  invisible  now:  overlaid 
by  a  morbid  jealousy  so  intense,  so  firmly  rooted  in  an 
obstinate  and  narrow  nature,  that  he  had  long  ago 
realised  the  utter  hopelessness  of  trying  to  eradicate 
it.  During  the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  when  he 
hardly  looked  at  another  woman,  this  absurd  jealousy 
inflamed  itself  against  his  men  friends,  his  business,  his 
ambitions.  At  the  time,  he  was  so  sorry  for  the  poor 
creature  that  he  surrendered  his  will  to  her  to  such  an 
extent  as  to  make  himself  ridiculous.  This  happened 
before  she  left  the  stage.  Perhaps  he  had  blundered 
also  in  urging  her  to  give  up  her  profession.  He 
smiled  grimly  when  he  reflected  how  sedulously  she  had 
cultivated  her  art  since  her  retirement.  Society — the 
actors,  musicians,  painters,  and  philanderers — who 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

drank  his  champagne  and  paid  court  to  his  wife  were 
unanimous  in  declaring  Richard  Gasgoyne  to  be  un- 
worthy of  the  talented  creature  he  had  married.  For, 
quite  suddenly,  exasperated  beyond  endurance,  he  had 
cut  loose  from  her  domination,  going  his  way  with 
inflexible  impassivity,  regardless  of  protests,  tears,  and 
hysterical  reproaches.  He  told  himself  that  he  had 
married  a  "  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair."  As 
the  years  passed  the  rag  and  the  bone  and  the  hair,  par- 
ticularly the  hair,  became  more  and  more  conspicuous. 
She  wore  amazing  gowns,  padded,  painted  her  face  and 
dyed  her  hair.  Gasgoyne  made  a  huge  success  with  a 
paper  called  the  Beacon,  and  a  witty  Frenchman  nick- 
named him  Le  Gardien  du  Fard  (Phare). 

Presently,  dismissing  Crystal  from  his  thoughts,  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  Dorothy,  telling  her  curtly  what  he 
had  done  on  the  boy's  behalf.  Purposely,  he  omitted 
any  tender  phrase,  knowing  that  she  would  miss  it,  that 
the  omission  would  trouble  her.  He  signed  himself 
"  Yours  faithfully,"  sealed  the  letter,  and  sent  it  by 
special  messenger  to  Curzon  Street.  Then  he  smoked 
a  couple  of  cigars,  before  he  began  again  the  normal 
work  of  his  life. 

Dorothy  acknowledged  the  letter  in  terms  almost  as 
curt  and  businesslike  as  his  own,  which  brought  a  grim 
smile  to  his  lips.  Emotion  is  like  champagne:  uncork 
it  too  soon  and  the  sparkle  goes  out  of  it.  Never- 
theless, he  felt  the  necessity  for  speech.  Accordingly, 
after  some  ten  days  had  passed,  he  called  upon  Moira 
Curragh. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me,"  he  began. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  221 

"  Not   at  all.      I  was   expecting  you." 

"  Lady  Curragh,  you've  been  very  kind  to  us." 

His  use  of  the  plural  provoked  a  slight  smile.  Gas- 
goyne  continued :  "  I  asked  her  to  go  away  with 
me." 

"  Bah !  You  say  that  as  if  you  were  a  pasha.  Did 
you  really  think  she  would  go  ?  " 

He  answered  moodily :    "  Yes." 

She  murmured  quickly :    "  Thank  God !    she  didn't." 

Something  in  her  tone  exasperated  him.  She  con- 
veyed the  quality  at  once  the  most  alluring  and  the 
most  infuriating  to  masterful  men:  an  elusiveness 
which  reminded  him  of  Dorothy. 

"  She  has  chosen  the  blameless  life,"  he  growled. 
"  She  will  kiss  the  boy,  play  Mendelssohn,  darn  stock- 
ings, and  let  that  Winchester  moss  grow  thick  upon  her 
body  and  soul." 

"  If  you  were  less  violent,  I  should  like  you  better." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Am  I  violent  ?  I  feel  so. 
Yes,  volcanic,  and  she — an  iceberg." 

"  How  dare  you  say  that !  And  you  think  I  shall  re- 
peat it  to  her.  But  I  shall  be  particularly  careful  not 
to  mention  your  name  to  her.  Did  you  think  because 
we  let  you  meet  her  here  that  we  were  tacitly  encour- 
aging you?  If  you  did,  you  are  not  as  clever  as  I 
thought.  No,  no,  my  friend,  we  arranged  the  meeting 
because  we  were  so  sure  of  her." 

"  I  have  been  cut  out  by  my  own  son." 

This  was  his  first  mention  of  Min.  Lady  Curragh 
eyed  him  very  keenly,  but  she  said  lightly :  "  I  should 
like  to  talk  to  you  about  him ;  he  is  the  most  delightful 


222  H  E  R     S  O  N 

boy  I  ever  saw.  Does  it  aggravate  you  to  hear 
that?" 

"  You  are  too  sharp." 

"Ah!  it  does  aggravate  you.  You  are  certainly 
very  human,  and  I  can  stand  in  your  shoes.  This  amaz- 
ing illumination  has  revealed  Doll  as  a  sort  of  angel, 
hasn't  it?  You  feel  that  she  can  fly — and  you  can't; 
and  then,  as  compensation,  Fate  makes  you  an  unex- 
pected present  of  a  son." 

"  You  put  it  clearly  enough.  You  knew  from  the 
beginning  that  he  was  mine?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  You  might  have  given  me  a  hint.  It  was  not  very 
friendly  of  you." 

"  I'll  be  entirely  frank :  from  the  first  to  last  I  have 
only  considered  Dorothy  and  her  wishes.  All  the  same, 
I  protested  against  her  letting  you  go  to  Africa,  I 
urged  her  to  spend  those  first  months  with  me,  I  ob- 
jected violently  to  the  adoption  of  Crystal's  child." 

"  And  you  received  my  wife.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
You  have  been  a  good  friend.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  Crystal  must  never  know  what  I  know,  but  I  have 
a  presentiment  that  she'll  find  out  some  day." 

"  She  won't,  if  you  leave  Dorothy  alone." 

"IWhy  should  I  leave  her  alone?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  join  her,  you  must  rise  to  her 
heights;  she  won't  fall  to  your  plane." 

"  I  don't  quite  take  you " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  If  I  were  not  sure  that  you  were 
the  right  sort,  that  in  your  heart  you  did  know  gold 
from  dross,  I  should  not  have  said  just  now  that  I 


H  E  R     S  O  N  223 

was  not  at  home  to  other  visitors."  She  dropped  her 
light,  easy  manner,  and  spoke  gravely,  with  a  feeling 
of  which  he  had  deemed  her  incapable.  "  You  will  not 
drag  her  down,  that  is  certain,  no  matter  how  hard 
you  try.  And  I  warn  you  every  attempt  to  do  so  will 
set  you  two  farther  apart.  On  the  other  hand " 

"  Go  on !  " 

"  If  you  help  her  by  leaving  her  alone,  by  not  dis- 
turbing the  peace  which  means  so  much  to  such  a 
woman,  you  will,  oh,  I'm  sure  of  it — have  your  reward." 

"  Are  you  hinting  at  a  life  to  come?  " 

"  Don't  sneer !  " 

"  If  you  think  that  renunciation  is  another  word  for 
happiness " 

"  I'm  not  such  a  fool.  It  is  another  word,  perhaps, 
for  contentment,  serenity.  You  spoke  of  yourself  just 
now  as  an  unhappy  man.  And  it  is  true,  in  spite  of 
your  wonderful  success.  Dorothy  has  had  no  success 
of  that  kind,  but  she  is  not  unhappy.  She  looks  years 
younger  than  I  do,  and  we  are  the  same  age.  Is  it 
necessary  to  draw  the  moral?  " 

"  She  gave  me  the  same  advice  that  you  have  just 
given  me." 

"Ah!" 

"  I  am  to  go  on  working  for  Self  and  the  Empire." 

"  You  can  leave  out  the  Self,  if  you  like." 

"  And  have  my  picture  painted  with  a  halo.  Was 
there  ever  a  Saint  Richard?  I  think  not.  Not  in  our 
Calendar.  Good-bye,  Lady  Curragh.  Where  can  I 
buy  a  hair  shirt?  " 

She  replied  gravely  enough :  "  The  one  you  are  wear- 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

ing  now  will  last  long  enough.  Good-bye.  Come  and 
see  me  whenever  you  can,  but  keep  out  of  Winchester." 

"  I  haven't  been  back  since  I  was  at  school  there. 
One  moment.  About  the — boy.  You've  seen  him,  you 
say.  Can  you  describe  him?  " 

"  I  can  show  you  his  photograph." 

She  fetched  the  picture  and  placed  it  in  his  hand, 
turning  aside,  but  watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of 
her  eye.  He  stared  intently  at  the  frank,  eager  face 
smiling  up  at  his  own. 

"  He's  very  like  you.  Another  reason  for  keeping 
out  of  Hampshire." 

He  returned  the  portrait  in  silence,  and  took  his 
leave  with  an  impassive  countenance. 

Shortly  after  this  visit,  towards  the  end  of  the  sea- 
son, Gasgoyne  became  aware  that  his  wife's  health  was 
causing  her  grave  concern.  This  was  not  surprising, 
inasmuch  as  for  several  years  she  had  persistently  prac- 
tised immoderation  in  all  things.  Certainly  she  had 
the  appearance  of  a  wiry  woman,  being  of  the  long, 
lean,  indefatigable  sort,  who  go  everywhere,  do  every- 
thing, and  seem  to  suffer  fatigue  only  vicariously  in 
the  persons  of  those  who  witness  their  amazing  activi- 
ties. Dick  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  the  mere 
recital  of  what  his  wife  accomplished  during  an  average 
day  gave  him  the  backache. 

As  usual  he  had  supposed  that  she  would  go  to 
Homburg  after  Goodwood,  but  when  the  time  came 
to  order  rooms,  Crystal  said  abruptly  that  she  intended 
to  take  a  three-weeks'  cure  at  Bad  Nauheim. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  225 

"  At  Nauheim  ?     You  don't  mean  to  say  that " 

"  Yes ;  heart.  Oh,  it's  nothing  serious,  and  if  it 
were  you  wouldn't  care." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  defiance,  as  if  she 
had  divined  that  she  stood  between  him  and  happiness 
and  meant  to  take  particular  pains  to  go  on  so  stand- 
ing as  long  as  possible. 

Dick,  hardened  though  he  was,  felt  a  pang  of  pity. 

Then  he  said  quietly :  "  I  suppose  Skeffington  advises 
Nauheim?"  She  nodded  carelessly,  and  hurried  away. 
That  afternoon  Dick  called  upon  the  famous  special- 
ist and  sent  in  his  card.  Not  having  an  appointment, 
he  had  to  cool  his  heels  in  the  waiting  room  for  nearly 
three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Finally  he  stood  face  to 
face  with  the  great  man. 

"  My  wife  tells  me  you  are  sending  her  to  Nauheim." 

The  doctor  smiled  reassuringly.  Then  in  his  bland 
tones,  he  begged  Dick  to  sit  down.  Mrs.  Gasgoyne 
had  a  wonderful  constitution  of  which  she  had  taken 
perhaps  undue  advantage.  There  was  cardiac  weak- 
ness. Nothing  organic,  but  an  overstraining.  He 
concluded  with  emphasis: 

"  She  must  take  things  more  quietly." 

"  And  if  she  won't?  " 

The  doctor  looked  at  his  nails. 

*'  If  she  won't,"  he  murmured,  "  you  must  make  her, 

or "  he  spread  out  his  hands  in  an  expressive 

gesture. 

"Make  her?"  Dick  repeated  the  words,  frowning. 

"  Oh,  there  are  ways  and  means  which  good  hus- 
bands know.  Quite  between  ourselves,  my  dear  sir,  I 


226  H  E  R     S  O  N 

can  assure  you  that  the  hearts  of  half  the  fashionable 
women  in  England  are — er — not  what  they  should  be." 

"  I  can  believe  that,"  growled  Dick. 

He  took  his  leave  after  a  few  more  phrases  had  been 
interchanged,  and,  later,  he  said  to  Crystal,  as  they 
were  driving  to  a  dinner  at  one  of  the  restaurants : 

"  Skeffington  tells  me  you  must  mark  time  for  a  bit. 
I'll  help  you.  Shall  we  cut  our  engagements  and  go 
abroad  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  replied  tartly.  Then  she 
laughed.  "  Go  abroad  with  you?  Honeymooning? 
Why  we  should  be  bored  to  death." 

"  At  Nauheim " 

"  I  don't  want  you  at  Nauheim.  We  may  as  well 
understand  each  other.  I've  had  a  fright.  You 
needn't  imagine  that  I  shall  give  you  your  freedom " 

"  Why  will  you  say  such  things  ?  "  he  muttered. 

"  Because  they  are  true,"  she  answered  defiantly. 
4<  You  never  cared  for  me ;  I  soon  found  that  out." 

He  felt  her  inquisitorial  glance  upon  him,  realised 
miserably  that  she  wished  him  to  deny  what  she  had 
said  and  his  inability  to  do  so.  She  continued  bitterly : 

"But  you  know  that  once  7  cared  for  you.  You 
don't  dare  to  deny  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  deny  it.     Calm  yourself !  " 

"  What  exasperates  me  is  that  you  have  never  looked 
at  our  marriage  from  my  point  of  view." 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  so." 

"  You  understand  men.  How  is  it  you  know  abso- 
lutely nothing  about  women  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  227 

"  Shall  I  show  you  my  point  of  view  ?  " 

"  Now?  We  shall  be  in  Piccadilly  in  a  minute  or 
two." 

"  A  great  deal  can  be  said  in  a  minute  or  two.  We 
are  never  alone  except  when  we  are  driving  out  to  dine." 
She  laughed  shrilly.  "  What  rows  we  have  had  in  this 
brougham ! "  She  laid  her  thin  hand  upon  his  arm ; 
he  could  feel  her  fingers  gripping  his  wrist,  as  she  con- 
tinued quickly:  "I  know  just  what  you  think  of  me, 
my  darling  Dick ;  I  can  see  myself  plainly  in  your  eyes. 
I  am  a  liar,"  she  felt  him  wince,  "  and  an  actress,  and 
false  from  my  hair  to  the  tips  of  the  shoes  which  you 
think  too  small  for  my  feet;  I  am  inordinately  vain, 
and  I  court  the  admiration  of  men  whom  you  despise." 

"  This  is  so  unnecessary." 

"  I  am  clever  as  I  can  stick,  you  know  that.  I'm  a 
fine  lady  now;  I  go  everywhere;  I  speak  English  and 
French  rather  better  than  you  do;  but  my  cleverness 
annoys  you." 

"For  Heaven's  sake !" 

"  I  don't  believe  you  ever  loved  anyone  except  your- 
self and  that  woman  who  jilted  you." 

"Mrs.  Armine  was  a  good  friend  to  you,"  he  an- 
swered steadily.  Then,  deliberately,  he  added :  "  I 
saw  her  the  other  day  at  Lady  Curragh's." 

"  Did  you  ?  I  thought  her  smart  friends  had  dropped 
her.  Well,  what  did  she  say  to  you?  " 

"  She  gave  me  to  understand,"  he  laughed  derisively, 
"  and  very  plainly,  that  she  had  no  wish  to  renew  our 
acquaintance.  She  is  wrapped  up  entirely  in  her  son." 

"  All  the  same  she's  a  widow ;  and  I  believe  that  if 


228  H  E  R     S  O  N 

anything  happened  to  me  you  would  make  up  to  her. 
Because  of  that  I'm  going  to  take  extra  good  care  of 
myself." 

Gasgoyne  said  no  more,  acutely  sensible  that  his  pity 
had  been  genuine.  The  possibility  of  her  death,  a 
contingency  never  calculated,  struck  him  with  horror, 
because,  instantly,  he  had  perceived  what  it  meant  to 
Dorothy  and  himself  and  the  boy:  the  adjustment  and 
regulation  of  three  lives.  Ever  since  his  last  inter- 
view with  Dorothy,  he  had  thought  steadily  of  reunion 
with  her ;  he  had  told  himself  that  the  psychological 
moment  must  come;  that  sooner  or  later  she  would 
need  and  claim  his  protection.  But  to  leave  his  wife 
engrossed  in  her  own  pleasures,  able  to  enjoy  her  own 
life,  was  one  thing ;  to  abandon  her  when  she  was  weak, 
to  aggravate,  possibly,  that  weakness  into  an  acute 
disease,  struck  him  as  dastardly.  Like  many  very 
strong  men,  physical  infirmity  aroused  his  finest  quali- 
ties. Now,  he  told  himself  grimly,  whatever  happened 
he  must  stick  to  Crystal. 

And  she  would  stick  to  him  like  a  limpet,  outlive  him 
probably,  for  she  had  a  will  of  Bessemer  steel,  and  was 
quite  likely  to  pursue  health  as  doggedly  as  she  had 
pursued  pleasure.  Well — there  remained  ambition 
and  work. 

Fate  ordained  that  business  of  political  importance 
took  him  to  Winchester  during  term  time.  He  wrote 
to  Dorothy,  warning  her  that  he  was  coming,  express- 
ing a  wish  that  they  should  meet,  if  possible,  but  leaving 
the  matter  in  her  hands.  She  replied  saying  that  she 
would  stay  in  her  house  and  run  no  risks. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  229 

At  Winchester  Dick  saw  Heseltine,  greeted  him  with 
geniality,  was  charmed  to  find  an  old  friend  and,  finally, 
considered  an  invitation  to  dine  and  pass  the  night 
beneath  the  old  friend's  roof. 

"Why  not?"  said  Heseltine. 

"  I  will,"  Dick  replied,  "  provided  that  we  have  the 
evening  to  ourselves." 

"  Mother  always  goes  to  bed  early." 

"  You  live  with  your  mother?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Bless  me !  I  supposed  Mrs.  Heseltine,  I  heard 
there  was  a  Mrs.  Heseltine,  was  your  wife." 

"  I  am  a  bachelor,"  said  Heseltine ;  then  he  added : 
"  My  mother  will  be  so  pleased  to  meet  you.  We  have 
spoken  of  you  a  thousand  times,  followed  your  meteoric 
career." 

He  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  You  might  have  looked  me  up,  old  Sobersides," 
said  Dick,  squeezing  him  arm. 

"  Tu  quoque!  Well,  we  won't  reproach  each  other. 
It  warms  the  cockles  of  my  heart  to  see  you  again." 

At  dinner,  alone  with  Heseltine  and  his  mother,  Dick 
became  once  more  the  Wykehamist,  prattling  of  adven- 
tures in  and  out  of  college,  using  the  college  slang, 
the  "  notions,"  chaffing  Heseltine  as  if  they  were  boys, 
with  gowns  tucked  up,  "  watching  out "  for  prefects  in 
Meads.  Mrs.  Heseltine  nodded,  captivated  by  Dick's 
easy  manners,  but  presently  she  began  to  talk  herself. 

"  If  I  had  known  you  were  coming,  Mr.  Gasgoyne,  I 
should  have  asked  Mrs.  Armine  to  meet  you :  our  friend 
and  neighbour." 


230  H  E  R     S  0  N 

"  Mrs.  Armine ?  "  Gasgoyne  sipped  his  wine  to 

hide  a  slight  confusion. 

"  Our  friend  and  neighbour :  the  most  charming 
woman.  Only  a  wall  divides  her  little  dining-room 
from  ours." 

"  You  know  her,  I  think,"  said  Heseltine. 

"We  have  met,"  said  Dick.  He  felt  that  Hesel- 
tine's  mild  orbs  were  on  him.  He  had  quite  recovered 
his  composure,  but  he  wondered  what  and  how  much 
Heseltine  knew.  Was  Heseltine  a  very  particular 
friend  ? 

"  Her  boy  is  a  great  admirer  of  yours,"  continued 
Heseltine ;  "  and  do  you  know,  it  is  very  curious,  but  he 
reminds  me  of  you  ?  " 

"Of  me?" 

"  Of  what  you  were.     It  rather  drew  me  to  him." 

At  once  Mrs.  Heseltine  plunged  into  a  panegyric  of 
Dorothy,  with  here  and  there  an  insidious  question.  At 
each  of  these  her  son  slightly  blushed.  His  mother's 
infirmity  sometimes  tried  his  patience  sorely. 

"  Mrs.  Armine  is  the  most  devoted  mother,  Mr.  Gas- 
goyne, and  as  a  wife  she  must  have  been  equally 
admirable.  I  suppose  you  knew  Mr.  Armine?  " 

"  No,"  Dick  replied.     "  I  never  met  him." 

"  Mrs.  Armine  never  mentions  him,  poor  man,  but 
they  say  in  Winchester " 

"  Mother,  the  Winchester  gossip  won't  interest  Mr. 
Gasgoyne." 

"  But.  it  does,"  said  Dick.  "  How  rude  of  him  to 
interrupt  you,  Mrs.  Heseltine !  " 

"Well,  well,  it  is  gossip,  but  the  Bishop's  wife  told 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

me  that  Mr.  Armine  had  never  received  Christian 
burial." 

"  I  believe  that  is  true,"  said  Dick  gravely. 

"  In  fact,  one  hardly  dares  mention  it,  but  I  was  told 
by  one  of  the  canon's  wives,  I  think,  that  he  was  eaten 
by  cannibals." 

"  No  wonder  he  is  never  mentioned." 

"  Just  so,  I  thought  you  would  understand,  but  the 
silence  has  created  a  little  mystery  as  you  may  imagine, 
and  that  together  with  the  fact  that  she  seems  to  have 
no  relations " 

"  Mother ! " 

"  Dear  David,  have  we  ever  seen  any  of  Mrs.  Armine's 
relations  ?  " 

"  She  has  relations,"  said  Dick  curtly.  "  I  used  to 
know  some  of  them.  Stupid  people !  They  rather  cut 
Mrs.  Armine  because  she  would  not  marry  the  idiotic 
young  lordling  they  had  picked  out  for  her." 

"  Really :  how  very  interesting.  It  has  made  her 
position  here — er — embarrassing.  For  her  sake,  I 
should  like  to  mention,  if  I  may,  that  you  have  vouched 
for » 

Again  Heseltine  tried  to  stop  the  too  garrulous 
tongue. 

"Mother,  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Armine  needs  no  creden- 
tials other  than  her  face  and  the  life  she  has  led 
amongst  us." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Dick  warmly.  "  And  if  she,  out 
of  mistaken  pride,  possibly,  has  chosen  to  keep  silence, 
the  least  we  can  do  as  her  friends  is  to  respect  that 
silence." 


232  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Mrs.  Heseltine  closed  her  mouth  with  a  sound  ap- 
proximating to  a  snap!  Shortly  afterwards  she  left 
the  men  to  their  coffee  and  cigars.  Dick  stared  at  the 
wall  which  divided  him  from  Dorothy:  she  had  sat  in 
this  very  room,  occupied  the  chair  he  was  occupying: 
her  presence  seemed  to  suffuse  itself  like  a  subtle  per- 
fume. Then,  through  the  thin  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke, 
he  saw  the  blue  eyes  of  Heseltine  fixed  in  steady  con- 
templation of  his  face.  Dick  turned  to  his  host. 

"  An  excellent  cigar,  Heseltine." 

Heseltine  nodded. 

"  My  mother,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  is  the  kindest 
creature  in  the  world.  I  should  like  you  to  believe  that 
in  her  way  she  has  silenced  rather  than  provoked  any 
gossip  there  may  have  been  about  Mrs.  Armine." 

Dick  puffed  at  his  cigar,  trying  to  divine  why  Hesel- 
tine had  spoken  so  deliberately. 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  replied  pleasantly.  "  One 
could  not  conceive  of  your  mother,  old  chap,  being 
other  than  a  good  sort.  It  has  been  delightful,  this 
renewal  of  friendship.  After  all,  the  old  friends,  the 
old  places,  the  old  jokes  are  what  bind  us  together. 
You  must  come  to  see  me,  and  my  wife,"  he  added  after 
a  slight  pause.  "  We  can  always  put  you  up,  you 
know." 

"  But  you  will  come  back  here,  Gasgoyne?  " 

te  I  hope  so,  but  I'm  a  slave,  a  regular  slave.  Posi- 
tively I  envy  you  your  quiet  life.  I'm  so  sick  of  the 
hurly-burly." 

"  I  fit  my  little  groove ;  and  you  fill  the  big  place 
you  have  made  for  yourself.  At  times  we  may  feel 


H  E  R     S  O  N  233 

that  we  should  like  to  stand  in  each  other's  shoes,  but 
Nature  made  our  lasts,  and  Nature  knows  her  business." 

As  he  spoke,  he  saw  that  Gasgoyne,  who  had  changed 
his  chair  after  Mrs.  Heseltine  left  the  room,  was  staring 
at  a  framed  photograph  of  Min ;  the  one  similar  to 
that  in  Lady  Curragh's  possession. 

"  Mrs.  Arniine's  boy,"  said  Heseltine.  "  I  told  you 
there  was  a  look  of  you."  He  rose,  took  the  photo- 
graph, and  placed  it  in  Dick's  hands. 

"  So  there  is.     But  I  was  a  common  type." 

"  You?     Not  in  this  country." 

Heseltine  replaced  the  photograph.  After  that  the 
talk  flowed  pleasantly  back  into  Meads  and  College 
Street.  The  name  Armine  was  not  mentioned  again. 


CHAPTER   XV 

SHORTLY  after  his  visit  to  Winchester,  Gasgoyne  wrote 
to  Dorothy  telling  her  of  what  had  passed  at  the 
Heseltines'. 

"Of  course"  (he  added  in  conclusion)  "you  will 
decide  what  you  think  is  best,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
in  withdrawing  so  completely  from  your  own  world  you 
have  whetted  rather  than  blunted  the  tongues  of  the 
gossips.  At  any  rate  you  admitted  to  the  Heseltines 
that  you  knew  me,  which  was  wise.  Is  there  any  rea- 
son now  why  we  should  not  meet  occasionally?  Hesel- 
tine  has  begged  me  to  visit  him  during  the  next  May 
fly  season.  I  should  like  to  see  something  of  the  boy, 
who  is  often  in  my  thoughts.  .  .  ." 

To  this,  after  much  consideration,  Dorothy  replied, 
that,  under  cover  of  his  friendship  for  Heseltine,  the 
risk  in  seeing  the  boy  occasionally  might  be  considered 
too  small  to  be  taken  seriously.  But  in  her  heart  Gas- 
goyne's  determination  to  invade  her  sanctuary  filled  her 
with  fears.  Her  intelligence,  the  more  acute  as  she 
grew  older,  told  her  that  Dick  was  behaving  selfishly, 
and  yet  the  admission  that  he  did  think  of  his  own 
son,  that  he  wished  to  see  him,  was  surely  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  Lastly,  she  had  faith  in 
his  ability  and  tact;  the  Hair  of  the  trained  journalist. 

234 


H  E  R     S  O  N  235 

To  make  things  easier,  Heseltine  had  been  given  com- 
mand of  the  house  where  Min  boarded.  Dick  could  run 
down  to  visit  his  friend,  meet  half  a  dozen  boys,  give 
a  "  feed  "  and  a  tip,  and  depart  without  arousing  the 
smallest  suspicions. 

This  happened  several  times  during  the  course  of 
the  next  twelve  months.  Dick,  as  an  old  Wykehamist, 
subscribed  munificently  to  college  institutions ;  Win- 
chester welcomed  him  with  open  arms  as  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  of  her  sons. 

But  Dorothy  and  he  met  but  seldom.  Upon  the  first 
occasion,  it  became  plain  to  the  woman  that  the  man 
had  accepted  the  situation.  Dick  spoke  curtly  of  his 
wife.  "  She  has  had  a  breakdown,  you  know :  heart ; 
but  she's  keeping  herself  in  cotton  wool  for  the 
moment." 

"  If  she  should  come  here " 

"  She  won't;  I'll  see  to  that." 

"  If  she  met  Min." 

"  Nothing  would  happen." 

Then,  very  nervously  and  with  a  hesitation  abso- 
lutely alien  to  him,  he  added :  "  You  know,  Doll,  per- 
sonally, I  believe  in  facing  things.  As  Susan  says,  you 
have  made  a  hole-and-corner  affair  of  this.  If  you 
hadn't,  we  should  be  together  to-day." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  her  fingers  trembled;  at  once 
Gasgoyne  was  seized  with  remorse. 

"  I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  whispered,  "  forgive 


me 


i » 


u 


I  like  you  to  speak  out  what  is  in  your  mind." 
The  past  is  past.     I  am  thinking  of  the  future. 


236  H  E  R     S  O  N 

You  are  frightened  out  of  your  life,  I  can  see,  lest 
Crystal  should  discover  the  truth.  Now,  between  our- 
selves, what  do  you  suppose  would  happen  if  she  did?  " 

"  If  she  asked  for  Min,  whatever  my  legal  claim 
might  be,  I  should  give  him  up." 

"  She  wouldn't  ask."  He  laughed  very  bitterly. 
"  You  dear  woman,  you  ought  to  meet  Crystal ;  it  would 
relieve  your  mind.  Having  once  thrown  her  cap  over 
the  windmill,  she,  so  to  speak,  wears  hats  with  strings 
and  keeps  the  strings  well  tied.  She  has  actually  per- 
suaded some  old  tabbies  to  believe  that  there  were  two 
Crystal  Wrides:  one  an  unmentionable  young  person 
who  danced  in  pink  tights,  and  the  other  the  Made- 
moiselle Nitouche  of  comediennes.  I  assure  you  she  has 
made  a  fetish  of  respectability." 

"  And  why  not,  Dick  ?  You  are  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  blame  her  for  doing  so." 

"  I  don't  blame  her.  But  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  she  would  never  acknowledge  a  son  who — well, 
who  was  placed  in  an  Institution  for  Little  Mistakes." 

"  She  might  teU  Min." 

"Why?" 

Dorothy  blushed,  too  honest  not  to  give  her  reason. 

"  If  Crystal  knew  the  truth,  she  would  be  furious 
because  she  would  regard  Min  as  a  link  between  you 
and  me.  She  would  discover  that  I  had  not  married, 
that — oh!  why  do  you  force  me  to  make  these  humili- 
ating explanations  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  contritely.  "  Crystal 
says  I  don't  understand  women.  I  don't  understand 
her  very  well,  but  you "  He  broke  off,  with  a  shrug 


H  E  R     S  O  N  237 

of  the  shoulders,  continuing  in  a  different  tone :  "  I  told 
Crystal  that  I  had  met  you  at  the  Curraghs'." 

"Oh,  Dick,  was  that  necessary?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  wouldn't  run  the  risk  of  her  hearing  it  from 
anyone  but  me.  And  I  told  her  the  truth,  too :  that  you 
were  wrapped  up  in  Min  and  quite  indifferent  to  one 
Richard  Gasgoyne." 

Dorothy  smiled  faintly. 

"And  you  believe  that  she  believes  that?  Oh,  Dick! 
What  a  lot  you  have  to  learn  yet  about — us." 

"  I'm  willing  to  go  to  school  again  with  you." 

She  changed  the  subject,  and  soon  after  they  parted, 
but,  next  day,  happening  to  meet  Heseltine,  she  noticed 
that  he  eyed  her  keenly,  with  an  odd  interrogation  in 
his  glance.  During  these  years  she  had  come  to  regard 
the  quiet,  silent  man  as  a  friend,  but  now  and  again  he 
puzzled  her.  She  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  consult- 
ing this  philosopher,  whose  quiet,  monotonous  life  formed 
such  a  contrast  to  Gasgoyne's  varied  and  variegated 
career.  Time  was — in  the  old  Helmingham  days — 
when  small  beer  had  been  esteemed  the  flattest  beverage ; 
now  she  had  a  palate  for  it.  Even  uninteresting  people 
interested  her,  as  if  the  demand  for  her  sympathy  had 
created  the  supply;  her  life  remained  sweet,  when  it 
might  have  turned  sour,  because  its  current  percolated 
everywhere,  feeding  and  fed  by  other  streams,  ebbing 
and  flowing  placidly,  but  never  stagnant. 

Shortly  after  this  first  visit  of  Dick's,  Crystal  trav- 
elled down  to  Winchester,  and,  without  any  warning, 
called  upon  Dorothy.  Fortunately  Min  was  at  school. 
Susan  opened  the  door,  and  in  the  resplendent  figure 


238  H  E  R     S  O  N 

standing  upon  the  threshold  failed  to  recognise  Crystal 
Wride. 

"  Why,  it's  Susan  Judson,"  said  Crystal. 

"  It's  Susan  Judkins,"  replied  the  ancient  hand- 
maiden, with  a  sniff.  Crystal's  slightly  high-pitched 
tones  were  unmistakable. 

"  I  have  come  from  town  on  purpose  to  see  Mrs. 
Armine.  Is  she  at  home?  " 

"  I'll  go  and  «ee,"  replied  the  cautious  Susan. 

In  another  minute  the  two  women  met.  Dorothy  was 
wearing  one  of  her  oldest  and  shabbiest  dresses ; 
Crystal's  frock — she  spoke  of  it  lightly  as  that — had 
cost  more  than  a  thousand  francs  in  Paris.  Crystal's 
air,  too,  her  assured  bearing,  her  quite  admirable  en- 
trance into  the  pretty  little  drawing-room,  amazed 
Dorothy.  Instantly,  she  perceived  the  actress,  the  coun- 
terfeit presentment  of  a  fine  lady :  almost  but  not  quite 
the  real  thing. 

"  Dick  told  me  you  had  returned  to  England  and 
were  living  here.  I  had  to  come  and  see  you." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Crystal  sat  down,  taking  note 
of  her  surroundings  with  a  slightly  patronising  lift  of 
the  eyebrows. 

"  What  a  charming  room,"  she  said,  with  the  cool 
indifference  of  the  well-bred.  Then,  abandoning  her 
Carlton  House  Terrace  manner  and  in  the  eager,  im- 
patient voice  that  recalled  irresistibly  Vauxhall  Bridge 
Road,  she  added: 

"  You  know  that  the  child  died." 

The  suddenness  of  the  question  brought  a  flush  to 
Dorothy's  cheeks.  She  replied  evasively: 


H  E  R     S  O  N  239 

"  So  Mr.  Gasgoyne  told  me." 

Crystal  laughed. 

"  Do  you  speak  of  him  as  Mr.  Gasgoyne  now  ?  " 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  continued :  "  I 
have  never  told  Dick  that  I  left  the  kid  in  an  institution, 
you  know.  I  couldn't.  He's  the  sort  to  resent  that.  I 
let  him  believe  that  the  little  thing  had  died  soon  after 
it  was  born.  But  you  know.  And  as  you  were  always 
a  good  sort,  much  too  good,  for  that  matter,  I  thought 
I'd  run  down  to  warn  you  to  be  careful.  You  might 
quite  unintentionally  give  me  away.  It  would  make 
mischief  between  us,  make  things  even  worse  than  they 
are."  Her  defiant  laugh  rang  out.  "  And  there's 
Susan  still  with  you.  I  suppose  she's  not  likely  to 
gabble." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Dorothy.  Then,  with  the 
colour  still  in  her  cheeks,  for  such  evasions  were  odious 
to  her,  she  said  quietly :  "  I  can  promise  you,  Mrs. 
Gasgoyne,  that  I  shall  not  make  mischief  between  you 
and  your  husband,  and  I  shall  certainly  tell  him  noth- 
ing that  he  does  not  know  already." 

"  I  knew  you'd  say  that,"  said  Crystal.  She  eyed 
Dorothy  very  sharply.  "  I  say,  you've  not  changed 
much.  You  don't  look  the  widow  or  the  matron. 
You've  taken  good  care  of  yourself.  But  it  must  be 
deadly  dull  here.  And  you  have  a  cemetery  over  the 
way,"  she  shuddered ;  "  as  if  graves  weren't  always  near 
enough." 

"  If  your  baby  hadn't  died,"  said  Dorothy  slowly, 
"  would  you  have  taken  it  back  when  you  married,  and 
acknowledged  it  ?  " 


240  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  No !  "  The  monosyllable  rapped  out  with  start- 
ling emphasis.  "  I'm  glad  it  died.  I  suppose  you  know 
that  now  I'm  an  ornament  of  fashionable  society ;  that's 
what  some  of  the  reporters  call  me.  Oh,  I  can  let  my- 
self go  to  you ;  it  does  me  good.  I  left  the  stage  a  year 
after  I  married  Dick,  but,  bless  you,  I've  kept  my  hand 
in.  And  I've  done  better  work  on  velvet  pile  carpets 
than  I  ever  did  on  the  boards.  Of  course  one  misses  the 
pit  and  gallery,  but  I'm  always  playing  to  the  stalls." 

"  And  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  How  am  I?  Oh,  perfectly  well,  of  course.  I 
always  say  that  to  other  women ;  it  annoys  most  of  'em, 
but  to  you  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I'm  not  well.  When 
I'm  not  made  up  I  look  a  wreck.  I'm  not  complaining. 
Most  people  would  say  I've  had  a  good  innings.  Some 
of  'em  would  stare,  though,  if  they  could  hear  me  talk- 
ing like  this  to  you." 

The  old  vitality  which  had  challenged  and  then  en- 
chained Dorothy's  interest  still  flared  in  her  eyes. 
Dorothy  sat  beside  her,  listening  to  a  recital  of  her  tri- 
umphs on  the  stage  and  in  society,  but  sensible  that 
beneath  the  bubble  and  froth  of  words  lay  deeper  cur- 
rents. She  divined  at  once  that  Crystal  had  taken  a 
rather  tiresome  journey  to  accomplish  more  than  the 
obtaining  of  a  promise  that  no  mention  should  be  made 
of  the  Institution  for  Little  Mistakes.  Presently  Crys- 
tal said  lightly: 

"  Dick  told  me  you  had  snubbed  him.  I  daresay  it 
did  him  good." 

Dorothy  replied  tranquilly :  "  I  am  leading,  as  you 
see,  a  very  quiet,  simple  life." 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  You  never  really  forgave  Dick,  did  you  ?  That's 
why  you  married  somebody  else  so  soon  ?  " 

Crystal  was  very  clever,  but  not  quite  clever  enough 
to  analyse  the  hesitating  utterance  of  one  who  is  forced, 
perhaps  unwillingly,  to  smother  emotions. 

"  Need  we  discuss  that?"  she  murmured. 

"  I'm  glad  I  came,"  said  Crystal,  rising.  Then, 
hardly  stifling  a  yawn,  she  added :  "  You've  turned  into 
a  sort  of  saint,  eh?  I  suppose  you  potter  about  this 
moth-eaten  old  town,  carrying  soup  to  the  poor,  and 
all  that?  Well,  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  You're  a  bit  frigid.  Dick  didn't  like  that."  She 
showed  her  beautiful  teeth.  "  And  I'll  just  whisper 
this  to  you:  you  had  a  lucky  escape  from  Dick.  Yes, 
you  did.  He's  like  most  men,  absolutely  selfish,  wrapped 
up  in  his  own  affairs,  and  finding  his  pleasures  any- 
where and  everywhere  except  in  his  own  home.  So 
long!" 

With  a  swish  of  her  silk  skirts  she  was  gone. 

Let  us  admit  candidly  that  after  Crystal's  visit  Dor- 
othy had  a  bad  time.  How  had  such  a  woman  captured 
Dick?  And  with  such  odds  against  her!  One  hardly 
likes  to  set  it  down,  but  it  is  possible  that  Dick  might 
have  found  her  without  resistance  had  he  presented 
himself  in  those  first  abominable  moments.  She  found 
herself  examining  her  pretty  furniture  and  beloved 
prints  with  a  vague  irritation  and  dislike,  and  yet  the 
dominant  feeling,  or  shall  we  say  the  one  that  in  the 
end  overpowered  all  others,  was  the  reflection  that 
Crystal  had  not  seen  Min. 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

Meantime  she  had  told  the  boy  that  the  money  to  pay 
for  his  education  was  part  of  an  unexpected  legacy, 
and  that  she  expected  him  to  exhibit  his  gratitude  by 
making  a  special  effort.  During  the  first  year  at 
Winchester,  however,  it  seemed  as  if  the  seed  had 
fallen  upon  absolutely  barren  soil.  Min  became 
preeminent  in  games  and  a  leader  amongst  the  fags. 
His  high  spirits,  his  disregard  of  authority  brought 
him  endless  punishment.  He  tried  to  work,  but  the 
influence  of  his  house  before  Heseltine  took  com- 
mand of  it  was  against  sustained  endeavour.  Doro- 
thy passed  sleepless  nights,  you  may  be  sure,  but  always 
Heseltine  assured  her  that  the  boy  "  would  come  out 
all  right  in  the  end."  The  tutor  based  his  assurance 
upon  Min's  love  for  Dorothy  and  his  genuine  remorse 
at  causing  her  unhappiness.  Meantime,  he  undertook 
the  breaking  of  this  wild  colt,  although  the  young  ani- 
mal had  no  idea  of  how  slowly  and  carefully  the  lung- 
ing and  bitting  were  accomplished.  For  Heseltine's 
methods  were  unostentatious.  But  his  slightly  de- 
risive smile  became  at  times  a  burden  upon  the  mind  and 
memory.  Wykehamists  admitted  the  impossibility  of 
humbugging  him.  At  the  end  of  Min's  third  term,  he 
shewed  Heseltine  with  enormous  pride  a  silver  cup  he 
had  won  against  competitors  older  and  bigger  than 
himself.  Heseltine  glanced  at  the  cup  and  then  at  the 
triumphant  Min,  who  had  been  reported  as  "  unsatis- 
factory, indolent,  and  grossly  careless  "  by  his  mathe- 
matical master,  mathematics — let  it  be  said — being  the 
subject  in  which  the  boy  had  displayed  marked  ability. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  243 

"  Not  bad,  sir,"  said  the  jubilant  Min.  "  My  mother 
will  be  rather  pleased  about  this." 

"Will  she?"  murmured  Heseltine;  then  smiling 
he  added  thoughtfully :  "  I'm  sure  Susan  Judkins  thinks 
you  a  very  fine  fellow  indeed." 

Min  had  the  grace  to  blush,  and  when  he  shewed  his 
trophy  to  Dorothy  he  muttered  sheepishly :  "  I  wish 
I'd  done  better  in  that  beastly  algebra." 

Behind  Heseltine's  back,  very  small  boys  indulged 
in  such  withering  sarcasm  as :  "  Old  Hazel  is  tied  to 
his  Mammy's  apron  strings,"  because  mother  and  son 
were  seen  walking  together  in  Meads,  when  other  mas- 
ters were  playing  racquets  or  fives,  but  one  June  after- 
noon Min  heard  Heseltine  refuse  a  day's  trout  fishing 
on  the  plea  that  he  had  promised  to  take  his  mother 
for  a  drive.  The  amazed  Min  protested :  "  I  say,  sir, 
there's  a  splendid  lot  of  fly  on  the  water ;  you  won't 
have  a  better  chance  this  year." 

To  this  Heseltine  replied  drily :  "  You're  devoted  to 
your  mother,  aren't  you,  Min?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  but " 

"  And  so  am  I  to  mine.  It's  a  bond  between  us. 
There  are  lots  of  trout,  but  few  mothers.  Run  along !  " 

Min,  however,  moved  off  very  slowly,  and  the  next 
time  an  allusion  was  made  in  his  hearing  to  Heseltine 
and  apron-strings,  the  speaker — much  to  his  indigna- 
tion— had  his  arm  savagely  twisted. 

After  a  couple  of  years  had  passed,  it  became  more 
and  more  evident  that  Gasgoyne's  affection  for  his  son 
was  fructifying.  Min,  on  his  side,  had  developed  a 


244  H  E  R     S  O  N 

sort  of  hero-worship  of  the  celebrity  who  treated  him 
with  unvarying  kindness  and  a  familiarity  untainted 
by  patronage.  Dick,  warned  by  Dorothy,  was  equally 
friendly  with  other  Wykehamists,  but  Min  knew  that 
he  was  the  favourite. 

One  day  he  said  to  his  friend  Parflete,  red-haired  and 
eccentric  as  ever: 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne  has  tipped  me  a  fiver." 

"  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  understand  why  he's  taken 
such  a  fancy  to  you." 

"  It  is  rather  odd." 

Parflete  considered  for  a  moment,  then  he  said  with 
a  significant  wink  of  his  sound  eye :  "  A  fellow  gave 
me  a  watch  once.  It  didn't  go,  because  I  took  it  to 
pieces  the  first  day  I  had  it.  That  fellow  had  only  seen 
me  twice,  but  I  found  out  afterwards  he'd  been  spoons 
on  my  mater.  Twig?  " 

A  vision  of  a  stout  lady  with  black  hair,  worn  in 
Madonna  bands,  tightly  drawn  back  from  a  face  whose 
tint  indicated  dyspepsia  rather  than  rude  health,  con- 
fronted Dick. 

"  Spoons  on  your  mater?  "  he  repeated. 

Parflete  caught  an  inflection  of  incredulity. 

"  My  mater  was  j  oily  good-looking — once,"  he  said 
angrily. 

"  Of  course,"  Min  eagerly  assented.  "  And,  by  Jove ! 
you're  right,  Billy.  I'll  bet  my  boots  that  Mr.  Gas- 
goyne was  spoons  on  my  mater." 

Saturated  with  this  illuminating  discovery,  he  rushed 
to  Dorothy. 


H  E  R     S  0  N  245 

"  I  know  why  Mr.  Gasgoyne  is  so  jolly  decent  to  me," 
he  told  her.  "  I've  found  you  out ;  oh,  you  sly  little 
Mummie ! " 

Then,  delighted  with  her  ready  blush,  he  kissed  her 
and  whispered: 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne  was  spoons  on  you  once,  now,  wasn't 
he?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Dorothy    gravely. 

"  And  yet  he  married  a  holy  terror." 

At  his  tone  she  took  alarm. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Gas- 
goyne? She  was  a  beauty,  a  famous  actress." 

"  She  paints  her  face,"  said  Min  disdainfully.  "  One 
of  the  men  in  my  house  knows  her  quite  well.  What- 
ever she  may  have  been,  she's  now  a  caution  to  snakes." 

"  Don't  let  me  ever  hear  you  speak  of  any  woman 
in  that  way,"  Dorothy  commanded;  and  Min  was  so 
astonished  that  his  voluble  tongue  seemed  to  be  para- 
lysed. He  had  hoped  that  Dorothy  would  let  him  have 
a  glimpse,  at  least,  of  some  lavender-scented  romantic 
page.  As  usual,  she  had  shied  away  from  the  past  with 
unaccountable  violence.  And  for  the  thousandth  time 
her  silence  intimidated  him  (about  the  only  thing  that 
did).  Very  dimly  he  began  to  perceive  suffering  and 
disappointment  beneath  a  smooth  skin  and  behind  clear 
eyes.  Min  was  now  seventeen  and  approaching  man- 
hood rapidly. 

During  that  summer  term  an  incident  occurred.  The 
young  man  discovered  what  the  boy  had  been  too  blind 
to  see,  to  wit  that  Dorothy  had  made  concrete  sacri- 


246  H  E  R     S  O  N 

fices  for  his  sake.  One  day  he  remembered  with  vivid- 
ness a  cross  of  handsome  diamonds  which  she  had 
inherited  from  her  mother. 

"  You  never  wear  your  cross,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  I?  "  Dorothy  smiled.  "  Well,  Min,  you  are 
old  enough  to  know  that  I  sold  it." 

"Sold  it!     Why?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  with  a  slight  flush, 
she  said  quietly :  "  To  pay  my  debt  to  Mr.  Williamson." 

The  colour  died  out  of  her  cheeks  and  flamed  in  the 
young  man's. 

"  Did  you  sell  the  *  Cries  '  to  pay  my  school  bills  ?  " 

The  "  London  Cries,"  a  fine  set  of  thirteen  prints, 
used  to  hang  in  the  drawing-room.  When  they  dis- 
appeared other  and  less  valuable  prints  took  their  place, 
and  Min  was  made  to  understand  that  Dorothy  had  been 
playing  "  swops." 

"  Yes :  they  had  to  go,  too." 

"  Oh,  mother !  " 

He  kissed  her  and  murmured  a  few  tender  words,  but 
doing  so  remembered  what  Heseltine  had  said  about 
kisses  and  words  being  cheap. 

A  fortnight  afterwards  Dick  Gasgoyne  came  to  Win- 
chester to  see  the  Eton  match,  held  that  year  in  Meads. 
Min  took  part  in  this  tremendous  contest,  in  which  for 
ihe  first  time  in  many  seasons  Winchester  won  a  glori- 
ous victory.  He  played  a  very  useful  innings  and 
was  almost  embraced  by  Heseltine,  who  quite  abandoned 
his  usual  chill  composure.  Then  Gasgoyne,  taking  Min 
aside,  told  him  he  was  going  to  present  him  with  a  gun. 

"  How  awfully  generous  of  you !  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  247 

Dick  laughed,  delighted  with  the  young  fellow's 
eager,  grateful  face. 

"  And  I  shall  give  you  some  shooting.  Hullo !  what's 
up?" 

His  quick  eye  had  detected  a  passing  cloud,  succeeded 
by  a  vivid  flush. 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne,  I  suppose  you'd  think  me  a  beast  if 
I  asked  you  for — for  the  money  instead?  " 

"Eh?  Money?  You're  not  in  debt,  are  you?  Tell 
me." 

"Yes:  horribly." 

"You  young  rascal!     To  whom?" 

"  To  my  mother." 

Dick's  face  cleared,  but  his  thick  dark  brows  ex- 
pressed interrogation. 

Hurriedly,  yet  haltingly,  Min  explained:  reciting  the 
facts  about  the  sale  of  the  diamond  cross  and  the 
"  Cries." 

Gasgoyne  nodded.  Then  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
Min's  shoulder. 

"  If  I  send  you  a  cheque,  what  will  you  do?  " 

"  Spend  it  on  diamonds." 

*'  Um !  I  think  we'd  better  buy  those  diamonds  to- 
gether, and  do  a  play  at  the  same  time.  What  do  you 
say?" 

This  programme  was  carried  out  at  the  beginning 
of  the  summer  holidays,  Crystal  being  absent  at  the 
time.  Min  came  back  to  Winchester  with  a  fine  dia- 
mond ring  in  his  pocket.  He  had  to  explain  everything 
to  Dorothy,  and  said  at  the  end  with  a  gay  laugh: 
"You  see,  Mumsie,  my  old  gun  will  do  jolly  well  for 


248  H  E  R     S  O  N 

the  next  five  years.  Let  me  slip  on  the  ring  and  wish 
you  everything  good  under  heaven." 

She  kissed  him,  murmuring :  "  My  dear  son,  my  dear, 
dear  son." 

As  he  grew  older,  he  talked  more  and  more  openly 
with  Dorothy  upon  subjects  which  revealed  his  matur- 
ing ideas  and  judgments.  Since  the  famous  affair  with 
Nellie,  he  had  adored  half  a  score  of  charmers.  Doro- 
thy encouraged  in  him  a  chivalrous  ideal  of  woman. 
But  one  day,  to  her  extreme  dismay,  he  began  to  talk 
of  illicit  love  and  its  consequences.  Long  before,  when 
he  was  a  small  boy,  he  had  asked,  a  propos  of  some 
passage  in  English  history :  "  Mumsie,  what  is  a  natural 
son?"  To  this  Dorothy  replied  categorically:  "A 
natural  son,  Min,  is  a  child  whose  father  and  mother 
have  never  been  properly  married."  Min,  at  that  time 
absolutely  innocent,  had  digested  this  information  for 
at  least  a  minute  before  he  said  with  a  quip  which  in- 
dicated his  sense  of  humour :  "  Why  aren't  they  called 
unnatural  sons?  " 

But  a  child  of  ten  can  be  pushed  gently  from  thin 
ice  or  be  forbidden  to  approach  it.  With  a  young  man 
of  seventeen,  questions  must  be  met  squarely. 

Upon  this  particular  occasion  they  had  ascended  the 
hill  crowned  with  trees  which  rises  to  the  south-west  of 
Winchester.  Below  lay  the  ancient  town  slightly  ob- 
scured by  haze  and  mist  out  of  which  crept  the  Itchen, 
that  silvery  stream  beloved  by  anglers.  Upon  the  other 
side  of  the  city,  silhouetted  against  the  evening  sky, 
black  and  sinister,  the  tower  of  the  county  gaol  frowned 
grimly  upon  the  soft  red  brick  houses  at  its  base.  That 


H  E  R     S  O  N  249 

morning  at  eight  o'clock  a  woman  had  been  hanged  for 
the  murder  of  her  baby.  The  case,  a  cause  celebre, 
engrossed  the  sympathy  and  pity  of  all  England. 
Desperate  efforts  had  been  made  to  obtain  a  reprieve, 
but  the  Home  Secretary,  fortified  by  the  support  of 
the  judge  who  tried  the  wretched  woman,  remained 
inexorable.  Dorothy  saw  Min's  eyes  resting  upon  the 
tower  and  guessed  his  thoughts. 

"  What  beasts  there  are  in  the  world ! " 

"  Don't  think  of  her  as  a  beast,"  she  whispered. 

"Her?  I  was  thinking  of  the  man  who  betrayed 
her,  of  the  man  who  escapes  scot  free!  I'd  like  to  kill 
him — with  my  own  hand." 

As  before,  she  was  vouchsafed  a  glimpse  of  Crystal. 
These  gusts  of  passion  were  rare  with  Min,  and  there- 
fore the  more  impressive. 

"  If  anybody  belonging  to  me  were  treated  like 
that " 

"  My  dear  Min,  you  mustn't  get  so  excited." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  mother.  Why  you  look  quite 
scared.  It's  the  injustice  of  it  that  maddens  me.  Is 
there  one  law  for  women  and  another  law  for  men?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorothy  slowly.  "  Eastern  women  un- 
derstand that  better  than  we  do.  The  purity  of  the 
race  lies  in  the  hands  of  the  women,  and  a  violation  of 
that  purity  is  a  greater  offence  in  a  woman  than  in  a 
man." 

She  spoke  dreamily,  giving  utterance  to  an  opinion 
often  and  carefully  considered,  not  remembering  for 
the  moment  the  particular  instance  of  Min's  birth. 

"  It  would  be  easier  for  you  to  forgive  the  man  in 


250  H  E  R     S  O  N 

such  a  case  as  that,"  he  indicated  the  gaol,  "  rather 
than  the  woman?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  surprised." 

A  new  note  in  his  voice  challenged  her  attention. 
Perhaps  for  the  first  time  she  regarded  him  as  a  man, 
and  as  such  one  who  was  entitled  to  an  opinion  which 
he  would  not  lightly  relinquish.  Then,  in  full  flood, 
the  significance  of  the  subject  in  the  mouth  of  Crystal's 
child  almost  swept  her  away. 

"  He  went  away  and  left  her,"  continued  Min,  scarlet 
with  indignation,  "  and  he  was  not  an  ignorant  man. 
Some  people  would  call  him  a  gentleman.  A  gentle- 
man!" 

"  If  he  didn't— know J> 

"  That  aggravates  it.  He  ought  to  have  known. 
And  you,  of  all  the  women  in  the  world,  you  defend 
him!" 

"  Min,  you  are  too  young  and  too  inexperienced  to 
throw  stones ;  and  what  makes  it  worse  in  your  case  is 
that  you  are  such  a  good  shot." 

She  touched  his  arm,  smiling  pathetically,  but  he 
still  regarded  her  f rowningly :  wondering  why  even  the 
best  of  women  was  so  hard  upon  her  own  sex. 

"  It's  lucky  the  baby  is  dead,"  he  muttered.  "  That 
was  the  kindest  thing  the  mother  could  do  to  it,  to 
murder  it ! " 

"Don't  say  that!" 

He  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment ;  her  eyes  were  wet, 
her  finely-formed  fingers  trembled.  In  a  vague  fashion 
he  apprehended  trouble,  some  dark  shadow  behind  this 


H  E  R     S  O  N  251 

gracious,  tender  figure.  Regarding  her  he  began  to 
stammer:  "Why,  mother,  what  is  it?  Surely  you 
agree  with  me.  In  our  civilisation  what  place  is  there 
for  a  basely-born  child,  the  son  of  a  gentleman  and 
some  wretched  waif?  " 

She  answered  him  slowly,  weighing  each  word,  try- 
ing to  speak  impersonally,  to  throw  the  fine  dust  of 
generalities  into  the  artless  eyes  looking  into  hers. 

"  There  is  a  place  here  for  such,  my  son :  a  place  that 
can  be  filled  worthily,  in  spite  of  all  its  disabilities. 
And  Nature  is  sometimes  kinder  to  these  poor  love- 
children  :  often  they  are  stronger,  healthier,  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  others.  I  have  heard  my  father  say  so." 

Of  late  years,  she  had  spoken  several  times  of  her 
father  to  the  boy,  describing  his  life  and  his  inde- 
fatigable labours  on  behalf  of  the  poor  and  infirm ;  but 
she  had  kept  secret  his  name,  or  rather  she  had  cut  off 
the  Fairfax,  leaving  the  Middleton,  his  second  name, 
which  he  had  never  used. 

"  All  the  same,"  replied  Min  after  a  pause,  "  if  it 
were  me,  I'd  sooner  be  dead." 

He  rose  abruptly  and  moved  a  few  paces  away,  turn- 
ing his  back  upon  the  woman  who  gazed  after  him  with 
troubled,  mournful  eyes.  * 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DOBOTHY  had  escaped  calumny  so  long  that  perhaps 
she  was  not  altogether  unreasonable  in  considering  her- 
self immune  from  it.  During  ten  years  she  had  built 
up  a  position  in  a  censorious  and  gossip-mongering 
community.  She  would  have  been  the  first  to  admit 
that  the  task  had  amused  her.  Her  mind,  ever  alert, 
found  distraction  in  the  exercise  of  tact  and  discreet 
silence.  More  than  once  she  had  stood  upon  the 
ragged  edge  of  discovery,  and  had  gazed  into  that 
abysmal  void  into  which  are  flung  the  socially  damned. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  long-impending  sword  of  recog- 
nition fell. 

Dorothy  was  drinking  tea  at  the  Deanery,  in  the 
pretty  room  which  looks  out  into  the  Close.  The  dean's 
wife  reckoned  herself  to  be  Mrs.  Armine's  friend,  but 
the  fact  that  Dorothy  withheld  confidence  respecting 
her  past  had  rankled  in  the  august  lady's  bosom. 
Nevertheless,  capacity  for  such  work  as  Charity  Or- 
ganisation, for  playing  the  piano  at  church  concerts, 
for  plying  her  needle  with  Friendly  Girls,  and  like 
accomplishments,  had  captured  respect  and  affection. 

Dorothy  was  alone  with  her  hostess  when  the  door 
opened  and  the  butler,  in  that  voice  of  sonorous  dig- 
nity which  lends  itself  so  admirably  to  the  presentation 
of  the  Illustrious,  said  loudly: 

"  The  Countess  of  Ipswich." 

252 


H  E  R     S  O  N  253 

Afterwards  Dorothy  wondered  whether  she  would 
have  recognised  her  cousin  Amy,  once  so  slender,  so 
becomingly  (her  mother's  adjective)  modest,  so  char- 
acteristically the  young  English  "  Mees,"  in  the 
majestic  figure  which  swept  into  the  deanery  drawing- 
room.  During  the  moment,  while  Mrs.  Chatfield  was 
greeting  her  visitor,  Dorothy  realised  the  impossibility 
of  escape,  and  summoned  all  her  energies  to  confront 
recognition.  Two  alternatives  presented  themselves. 
Amy,  pulpy-witted  Amy,  might  have  forgotten  her, 
or,  remembering,  might  possess  wit  and  tact  enough  to 
dissemble.  Then  Mrs.  Chatfield  said :  "  So  kind  of  you 
to  look  me  up ;  I  heard  you  were  stopping  with  the 
Hampshires.  May  I  introduce  a  friend  of  mine,  Mrs. 
Armine.  Mrs.  Armine — Lady  Ipswich." 

"  Gracious  !     It's  Dollie !  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  Amy?  "  said  Dorothy. 

The  cousins  shook  hands:  Amy  very  flushed  of 
countenance,  Dorothy  pale  but  calm:  a  slight  smile 
upon  her  lips. 

Mrs.  Chatfield  stared  from  one  to  the  other.  Her 
first  emotion  was  of  gratified  vanity:  because  she  had 
supported  a  stranger  apparently  on  intimate  terms 
with  a  great  lady ;  then  she  saw  the  great  lady's  purple 
cheeks  and  suspended  judgment.  Amy,  it  has  been 
said,  had  divided  most  of  the  past  fifteen  years  between 
the  nursery  and  the  kennels;  she  adored  her  children 
and  her  terriers,  which  proves  she  had  affections. 
Moreover  at  one  time  she  had  loved  and  admired  Doro- 
thy as  a  sister.  Now,  looking  into  Dorothy's  face, 
slightly  faded,  but  with  that  unmistakable  expression 


254  H  E  R     S  O  N 

of  spirituality  and  delicacy  which  made  her  a  more 
beautiful  woman  at  eight  and  thirty  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  teens,  Amy  told  herself  that  here  was 
a  noble  opportunity  to  befriend  the  outcast  and  fallen. 
Back  of  this  lay  of  course  the  amorphous  instinct  to — 
as  her  mother  had  put  it — hush  things  up.  Acting 
upon  these  reflections,  she  bent  forward  and  kissed 
her  cousin's  cheek.  Into  Dorothy's  eyes  crept  a  tiny 
sparkle  of  amusement.  She  understood  her  Amy. 

"  We  have  not  met  for  an  age,"  said  Amy.  "  Are 
you  living  here,  dear?  " 

"  Alone  with  my  son :  yes." 

"  Of  course — your  son.  Shall  you  be  at  home  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Dorothy  replied,  after  an  instant's  hesita- 
tion. Then  she  mentioned  her  address,  which  Amy 
repeated.  Mrs.  Chatfield's  slightly-congested  eyes 
cleared  perceptibly  as  she  heard  Dorothy  enquire  con- 
cerning the  Helminghams,  and  Amy's  replies. 

"  Poor  Papa !  He  is  a  confirmed  invalid.  And 
Mamma — as  devoted  as  ever!  Such  an  example!  We 
lead  very  humdrum  lives.  Teddy,  as  you  know,  hates 
town." 

Mrs.  Chatfield  smiled  for  the  first  time.  It  was  com- 
forting to  reflect  that  Mrs.  Armine  knew  Teddy. 
Dorothy  took  her  leave,  wondering  what  Amy  would 
say  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  hearing. 

Next  day    Amy  herself  furnished  this  information. 

"  My  dear,  I  had  to  answer  questions.  Oh !  I  was 
discreet,  you  may  be  sure.  And  in  these  cases  the 
truth  is  not  best,  is  it?  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  255 

"The  truth?" 

"I  let  Mrs.  Chatfield  think  that  we  had  not  met 
because  of  your — er — marriage  with — ahem! — Mr. 
Armine." 

"Oh!" 

"  And  I  laid  a  little  stress  upon  your  independent 
ways  as  a  girl,  and  your  upbringing " 

"You  mentioned  my  father's  name?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  Mrs.  Chatfield  would  have  hunted 
it  up  in  the  peerage." 

"  You  have  tried  to  make  things  easy.  I'm  much 
obliged.  Do  tell  me  about  yourself  and  your  chil- 
dren." 

Upon  these  congenial  topics  Amy  spoke  volubly  for 
nearly  an  hour.  Her  eldest  son  was  at  Eton  and  going 
into  the  Guards;  he  was  the  dearest  fellow;  her  girls 
were  very  satisfactory,  not  too  clever,  but  so  amiable 
and  domestic  in  their  tastes ;  Alicia,  the  younger,  drew 
quite  too  delightfully  in  water-colours.  .  .  . 

Dorothy  listened  to  this  artless  prattle,  with  an  un- 
comfortable sense  of  envy  and  jealousy,  not  because 
the  speaker  was  a  countess  and  a  rich  woman,  but  for 
the  subtler  reason  that  every  word  which  fell  from  her 
lips  indicated  the  possession  of  a  position  in  her  county 
and  family  which  nothing  could  assail. 

For  Dorothy  never  doubted  that  recognition  by  Amy 
meant  renewal  of  gossip  and  a  notoriety  which  might 
end  in  catastrophe;  it  meant  also  questions  upon  the 
part  of  Min  to  be  answered  evasively  or  with  humiliat- 
ing fibs.  Finally,  Amy  rose,  serene  and  majestic.  As 
she  kissed  Dorothy,  she  murmured  confidentially :  "  By- 


256  H  E  R     S  O  N 

gones  are  bygones,  ray  dear.  Shall  I  ask  Flora  Hamp- 
shire to  call  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  She  has  heard  of  you.  She  told  me  that  Mr. — er — 
Armine  had  been  eaten  by  cannibals,  and  that  was  why 
his  name  was  never  mentioned.  Dorothy,  you  have 
managed  so  cleverly,  and  you  look — How  you  have  kept 
your  complexion  is  quite  amazing!  And — your  figure! 
And  everybody  seems  to  speak  of  you  in  the  highest 
terms.  Poor  Mamma  will  be  so  pleased,  and  so  would 
Papa  if  he  could  be  made  to  understand.  Yes:  the 
mind,  unhappily,  has  quite  failed.  He  spends  the  morn- 
ing in  packing  up  papers  and  books,  and  in  the  after- 
noon he  unpacks  them.  In  the  evening  Mamma  sets  him 
simple  little  sums  in  addition  and  subtraction." 

"  Oh !  how  dreadful !  "  Dorothy  exhibited  real  sym- 
pathy, slightly  wasted  upon  a  lady  too  serenely  en- 
grossed in  her  own  life  to  enter  very  deeply  into  the 
lives  of  others  less  fortunate. 

"  It  might  be  worse,  Dorothy.  Teddy  has  an  uncle 
who  held  Orders.  He  has  a  mania  for  taking  off  his 
clothes  in  public  places.  Very  shocking!  Good-bye, 
dear,  so  glad  to  have  seen  you." 

She  drove  off  in  the  resplendent  Hampshire  barouche, 
waving  her  plump  hand  and  smiling. 

A  week  later  Dorothy  was  present  at  a  small  garden 
party ;  and  it  happened  that  the  dean's  wife  seemed  to 
melt  out  of  any  group  when  Dorothy  approached  it. 
Indeed,  Mrs.  Chatfield  was  on  a  hot  scent,  although  for 
the  moment  running  mute.  How  she  would  give  tongue 


H  E  R     S  O  N  25T 

presently !  For  she  had  found  in  her  Peerage  a  signifi- 
cant entry  under  the  name  Helmingham ;  the  date  of 
the  marriage  between  George  Fairfax  and  the  sister 
of  Sir  Augustus,  and  the  result:  one  daughter,  Doro- 
thy. Instantly,  she  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs. 
Armine  and  Lady  Ipswich  were  first  cousins.  Old 
friends,  who  have  not  met  for  years,  do  not  kiss ;  and 
the  great  lady's  kiss  had  been,  as  Mrs.  Chatfield  re- 
membered, rather  a  kiss  of  relationship  than  of  friend- 
ship. To  her  mind  the  frigid  salute  was  confirmation 
strong,  but  she  was  practical  enough  to  know  that  what 
satisfied  her  might  not  satisfy  other  enquiring  minds 
in  Winchester.  And  to  identify  Dorothy  Fairfax  with 
Dorothy  Armine  might  be  no  easy  matter. 

At  the  time  of  the  garden  party  she  had  discovered 
a  part  of  the  truth.  A  friend  in  town  with  an  en- 
cyclopaedic memory  and  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the 
house  of  Helmingham  had  answered  one  question,  upon 
four  pages  of  notepaper.  Dorothy  Fairfax  had  been 
presented  at  Court  by  Lady  Helmingham,  had  been 
taken  about  Mayfair  by  that  lady,  had  become  engaged 
to  be  married  to  Richard  Gasgoyne,  then  an  obscure 
journalist,  had  been  (supposedly)  jilted  by  him,  and 
finally  had  mysteriously  disappeared.  Mrs.  Chatfield's 
face  grew  grim  as  she  perused  this  letter,  for  although 
she  could  reasonably  claim  to  be  a  loyal  wife,  a  loving 
mother,  and  an  exemplary  churchwoman,  she  held — 
despite  (perhaps  because  of)  these  qualifications — the 
obtaining  of  her  friendship  and  support  under  false 
pretences  to  be  an  unpardonable  sin. 

Nevertheless,  nothing  might  have  happened,  had  it 


258  H  E  R     S  O  N 

not  been  for  the  excellent  Mrs.  Heseltine,  who  would 
cheerfully  have  sacrificed  the  tip  of  her  very  active 
tongue  rather  than  wittingly  do  Dorothy  an  injury. 
Unhappily,  Mrs.  Heseltine  had  been  uplifted  by  her 
son's  renewal  of  friendship  with  a  personage.  Dick, 
you  may  be  sure,  had  paid  David's  mother  a  score  of 
attentions :  salmon,  grouse,  venison  came  from  Scotland, 
pheasants  and  partridges  from  his  Essex  estate,  and 
Mrs.  Heseltine  could  not  deny  herself  the  pleasure  of 
saying  to  any  guest  who  might  be  dining  with  them: 
""  Mr.  Gasgoyne  sent  this  fine  fish.  He  never  forgets 
old  friends,  however  humble  they  may  be." 

Mrs.  Chatfield,  to  whom  words  to  this  effect  were 
addressed,  answered  thoughtfully :  "  I've  never  met  Mr. 
Gasgoyne.  Does  he  come  often  to  Winchester  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  Wykehamist,"  Mrs.  Heseltine  replied, 
"  and  interested  in  all  that  concerns  us :  his  kindness  to 
our  boys  is  extraordinary.  He  has  actually  asked 
young  Armine  to  stalk  this  year  in  Sutherland." 

"  Indeed,  how  very — interesting !  " 

Mrs.  Chatfield's  grandfather  had  kept  a  pack  of 
harriers,  so  the  love  of  the  chase  was  inherent  in  her. 
Positively,  a  view  halloa  nearly  left  her  lips.  Her 
hare,  indeed,  was  in  sight. 

She  was  now  convinced  that  Richard  Gasgoyne 
wished  to  shew  kindness  to  the  son  of  the  woman 
he  had  wanted  to  marry.  Nothing  more  natural,  but 
ihe  mystery  remained:  the  ever-recurrent  question 
presented  itself:  "Who  was  Armine?"  Debrett  never 
mentioned  Armine. 

When  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room,  Mrs.  Chatfield 


H  E  R     S  O  N  259 

was  seen  to  repulse  the  advance  of  the  prolific  wife  of  a 
minor  canon  and  to  turn  with  undue  impatience  to  her 
hostess,  with  whom  she  withdrew  to  a  corner  of  the 
drawing-room. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  Mrs.  Armine's  boy,"  she 
began  easily.  "  He  is  a  young  man  now " 

"  And  leaving  at  the  end  of  this  term,"  said  Mrs. 
Heseltine. 

"  Going  to  Oxford,  I  have  heard." 

"  Yes,  New  College." 

"  His  mother,  considering  her  circumstances,  is  very 
generous." 

"  The  boy  has,  I  am  told,  means  of  his  own.  What 
a  charming  woman  Mrs.  Armine  is !  " 

"Remarkably  so;  but,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  ex- 
pression, veiled.  One  has  never  seen  her  quite  clearly. 
I  don't  even  know  her  maiden  name." 

"  Middleton.  Her  father  was  a  doctor,  an  eminent 
one,  I  believe." 

"Ah!" 

Again  Mrs.  Chatfield  looked  grim.  She  could  see 
the  entry  in  Debrett:  "  Florence  Mary  married,  1856, 
George  Middleton  Fairfax,  F.  R.  C.  S." 

Mrs.  Heseltine,  sensible  of  a  fall  in  the  temperature, 
added  warmly :  "  And  the  most  devoted  mother  I  ever 
saw." 

"  Is  she  going  to  Scotland,  too  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  She  hardly  ever  leaves  home.  I  under- 
stand there  will  be  no  ladies  at  the  lodge.  Mr.  Gas- 
goyne  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  young  Armine.  Un- 
fortunately, he  has  no  son  of  his  own.  My  David  tells 


HER     SON 

me  that  Min  is  just  such  a  boy  as  Mr.  Gasgoyne  used 
to  be:  really  quite  a  remarkable  resemblance  both  men- 
tally and  physically.  Like  is  generally  drawn  to  like." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Chatfield,  drawing  in  her  breath 
rather  sharply. 

Mrs.  Heseltine  looking  up  saw  that  her  guest's  face 
was  slightly  pinker  than  usual,  and  that  her  eyes  were 
sparkling.  A  successful  hunt  is  admittedly  rejuve- 
nating. 

The  invitation  to  stalk  in  Scotland  had  been  accepted 
by  Min,  not  without  discussion  between  Dorothy  and 
Dick  Gasgoyne.  But,  as  usual,  the  man  had  over- 
powered the  remonstrance  of  the  woman.  Also  the 
boy  himself  was  so  keen.  Dorothy  had  not  the  heart 
to  keep  him  in  Winchester,  playing  tennis,  when  royal 
sport  awaited  him  in  the  Highlands.  Upon  a  higher 
plane  entirely  was  another  reason  for  risking  the  re- 
mote possibility  of  discovery.  The  time  had  come  for 
Min  to  choose  a  profession,  and  indications  were  not 
lacking  that  pipeclay  was  in  his  marrow.  Gasgoyne, 
however,  thinking  for  Dorothy,  pointed  out  that  mili- 
tary advancement  was  slow  and  that  a  keen  soldier  saw 
very  little  of  his  mother. 

"  You  are  an  only  son,"  he  said  to  Min.  "  A  bul- 
let will  kill  her  if  it  hits  you." 

The  young  fellow  nodded. 

"All  the  same  I  should  make  a  fair  fighting  man." 

"There  are  always  fights,"  said  Gasgoyne. 

"  I'm  not  fit  to  be  parson,  doctor,  or  barrister." 

"  How  about  journalism?  " 


H  E  R     S  O  N  261 

"  I  think  I  should  like  that." 

Accordingly,  Dick  enjoyed  the  keen  pleasure  of  tell- 
ing Dorothy  that  he  had  successfully  lured  Min  in  the 
direction  of  Fleet  Street.  He  insisted,  however,  upon 
the  visit  to  Scotland. 

"  It's  a  ticklish  thing  bending  the  twig,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  pretend  to  know  Min,  and  I  want  to  make  his 
intimate  acquaintance.  Lend  him  to  me  for  three 
weeks  or  a  month." 

"But  Crystal?  Oh,  Dick,  you  are  getting  rather 
reckless.  We  see  too  much  of  each  other." 

Gasgoyne  regarded  her  intently. 

"  We  have  met  exactly  five  times  during  the  past  four 
years.  Do  you  think  I  have  not  counted  them?  Do 
you  grudge  me — minutes,  when  you  know  that  a  minute 
with  you  is  more  to  me  than  a  year  with  anyone  else?  " 

She  blushed  faintly,  unable  to  meet  his  glance:  always 
afraid  that  the  flames,  so  long  suppressed,  would  burst 
out  and  destroy  both  of  them. 

"  As  for  Crystal,"  he  continued,  in  a  different  voice, 
"  she  is  wrapped  up  in  herself  and  her  health." 

"  She  is  better?  " 

"Better?  I  don't  know.  Sometimes "  he  broke 

off  abruptly,  adding  with  grim  irrelevance :  "  She'll  out- 
live us.  And  she  hasn't  been  to  the  lodge  for  years. 
But  there  is  no  adequate  reason  why  they  shouldn't 
meet." 

"  She  is  his  mother.  And,  Dick,  you  are  fonder  of 
Min  than  you  think." 

"  Bah !  He  is  all  yours.  Are  you  going  to  lend 
him  to  me  or  not?  " 


HER     SON 

She  told  herself  that  she  must  give  way,  and  did  so. 

The  meeting  with  Amy  Ipswich  followed,  and  then 
e  period  of  comparative  tranquillity.  Later  the  Dean 
and  Mrs.  Chatfield  went  abroad  for  a  six  weeks'  holi- 
day. They  returned  in  the  middle  of  September  about 
the  time  when  Min  travelled  to  Sutherland,  and  every- 
body in  and  about  the  Close  was  invited  to  a  garden 
party  at  the  Deanery. 

"  Of  course  you  are  going?  "  said  Mrs.  Heseltine  to 
Dorothy. 

Dorothy  hesitated  a  moment ;  then,  very  quietly,  she 
replied :  "  No,  I  am  not.  The  truth  is  I  have  been 
forgotten." 

"Forgotten?     You?" 

"  At  any  rate  I  have  not  received  a  card." 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  Mrs.  Chatfield?  " 

"  Pray  don't !  " 

"  It  is  very  strange.  Mrs.  Chatfield  is  so  particular 
about  such  matters,  almost  too  particular,  don't  you 
think  so?  " 

"  Perhaps."  Dorothy  smiled  faintly :  she  was  quite 
sure  that  the  dean's  wife  had  purposely  withheld  the 
invitation.  From  a  certain  expression  in  the  sharp 
beady  eyes  of  her  visitor  she  divined  that  Mrs.  Hesel- 
tine was  as  certain  as  she.  David's  mother  rose  to 
take  leave. 

"  It's  very  oppressive,  is  it  not?  Thunder  in  the 
air." 

"  Yes,"  Dorothy  held  out  her  hand. 

"  My  dear,"  Dorothy  felt  the  thin  wiry  fingers  clasp 
her  own  tightly,  "  I  suppose  you  know  that  nothing 


H  E  R     S  O  N  263 

would  ever  shake  my  friendship  and  affection  for  you,' 
nothing.  I'm  a  babbling  old  woman,  but  if — well,  I'll 
say  this  and  no  more,  speaking  for  my  son  as  much 
as  for  myself,  your  little  finger  is  more  to  us  than  the 
dean's  wife,  and  the  dean  himself,  and  all  the  chapter. 
There!" 

She  whisked  off,  leaving  Dorothy  touched  but  dis- 
mayed. No  preternatural  acuteness  was  necessary  to 
infer  that  Mrs.  Heseltine  had  called  with  a  definite 
purpose;  to  warn,  and,  with  any  encouragement,  to 
advise. 

"  There  is  certainly  thunder  in  the  air,"  said 
Dorothy. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

GASGOYNE'S  moor  and  forest  were  situated  not  far  from 
Lairg;  and  on  the  march  flowed  the  river  Shin,  which, 
in  its  upper  pools,  may  or  may  not  hold  many  salmon. 
Splendid  as  the  place  was  reckoned  to  be  from  a 
sporting  point  of  view,  it  possessed  but  a  small  lodge. 
Partly,  on  this  account,  more  particularly  because  the 
wife's  friends  were  not  the  husband's,  Crystal  never 
went  to  Ben  Aber.  Gasgoyne  promised  Min  a  few 
days'  grouse-shooting  and  a  salmon  or  two,  but  the 
"  tall  red  deer  "  were  to  furnish  the  principal  entertain- 
ment. Min,  as  has  been  said,  accepted  the  invitation 
gladly,  but  neither  Dorothy  nor  he  had  any  conception 
of  what  such  a  privilege  was  worth  in  the  eyes  of  per- 
sons living  north  of  Tweed.  It  is  certain  also  that 
Dick,  in  spite  of  his  enormous  experience,  had  over- 
looked the  importance  of  the  favour  he  was  shewing  to 
a  young  man  who  had  never  stalked  in  his  life. 

Crystal  heard  of  the  matter  from  the  slightly  in- 
jured sportsman  who  for  several  years  had  shared  the 
stags  with  Dick. 

"  You're  stalking  with  Dick,"  she  had  said,  meeting 
him  at  Sandown. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  he  replied  ruefully.  "  Dick  has  left 
me  out  this  year,  worse  luck.  He  tells  me  that  he 
means  to  have  up  a  Winchester  boy." 

"  This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,"  said  Crystal. 

264 


H  E  R     S  O  N  265 

However,  when  she  spoke  of  the  change  to  her 
husband,  he  replied  carelessly  that  there  was  nothing 
more  delightful  than  to  see  a  really  keen  boy  entered 
to  royal  game. 

"  It's  young  Armine,  you  know,"  he  added. 

"  Oh!  Young  Armine,  eh?  Do  you  do  this  extraor- 
dinary thing  for  his  sake  or  his  mother's  ?  " 

"  For  his,"  said  Dick  indifferently.  "  I  never  see 
the  mother.  The  boy  is  a  nice  boy,  Crystal."  He 
paused,  and  continued  with  a  feeling  in  his  voice  which 
surprised  her:  "I  wish  we  had  had  a  son  like  young 
Armine." 

Crystal  laughed  derisively  and  changed  the  subject. 
He  wondered  whether  he  had  spoken  deliberately  or 
on  impulse.  He  was  so  certain  that  the  truth  would 
leak  out  that  he  justified  himself  in  preparing  Crystal 
to  receive  it.  He  fortified  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  if  Crystal  met  Min  and  liked  him,  the  shock  would 
be  less  to  both. 

Crystal,  for  the  moment,  thought  no  more  of  the 
matter.  Long  ago  it  had  been  understood  that  so  long 
as  Dick  gave  to  her  a  free  hand  in  London,  she  would 
not  interfere  with  Ben  Aber.  But  it  struck  her  as  odd 
that  Dick  should  contemplate  a  month's  tete-a-tete  with 
a  boy  of  eighteen. 

At  the  end  of  this  season,  she  underwent  another  cure 
at  Naiiheim.  The  first  had  done  her  so  much  good  that 
Skeffington  on  her  return  had  pronounced  her  a  whole 
woman,  a  fact  she  had  carefully  concealed  from  Dick, 
because  she  had  divined  his  sympathy  for  her,  although 
she  repudiated  it,  and  was  comfortably  alive  to  the  con- 


266  H  E  R     S  O  N 

venience  of  possessing  an  imaginary  ailment  to  plead 
as  an  excuse  for  leaving  undone  certain  things  which 
Mrs.  Grundy  might  hold  ought  to  be  done.  Excellent 
persons,  with  slightly  inferior  cooks,  were  accustomed 
to  hear  of  Crystal's  sincerest  regret  that  her  "  heart " 
kept  her  almost  a  prisoner  in  her  own  house.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  had  resumed  even  with  greater 
ardour  the  old  life  of  private  theatricals,  dancing  and 
card-playing.  Dick  paid  all  bills,  and  told  himself 
that  Skeffington  was  a  humbug. 

The  second  visit  to  Nauheim  gave  her  a  bad  fright, 
for  the  Nauheim  doctor  declared  that  the  lesion  had 
become  serious.  At  the  conclusion  of  her  "  cure,"  he 
said  that  she  must  return  at  the  end  of  two  months  and 
that  meanwhile  she  would  do  well  to  live  quietly  in  some 
unfashionable  and  bracing  spot. 

"  If  I  come  here  next  year " 

The  German,  who  had  no  time  to  waste,  glared  at 
her  through  his  spectacles. 

"  Do  as  I  prescribe,"  he  growled,  "  or,  well,  how 
shall  I  my  meaning  make  clear?  Soh!  If  you  think 
my  advice  not  worth  taking,  I  shall  have  the  honour  of 
wishing  you  *  Adieu,'  Madame,  instead  of  *  Auf 
wiedersehen.' ' 

"  I'll  do  anything,"  Crystal  replied,  thinking  of  Ben 
Aber — certainly  the  quietest  and  most  bracing  spot  in 
the  world. 

Having  for  many  years  obeyed  no  law  higher  than 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  she  started  at  once  for  Scot- 
land— arriving,  indeed,  two  days  after  Min,  and  on 
the  heels  of  a  telegram.  Gasgoyne  was  much  put  out, 


H  E  R     S  O  N  267 

knowing  that  Dorothy  would  be  alarmed.  But  he  could 
not  dismiss  Min  without  exciting  Crystal's  suspicions ; 
so  he  wrote  to  Dorothy,  telling  her  what  had  happened 
and  entreating  her  not  to  worry.  He  concluded  with 
these  words :  "  She  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  boy. 
As  he  is  going  into  my  business,  they  must  have  met 
sooner  or  later,  why  not  now?  " 

Dorothy  laid  down  the  letter  feeling  that  the  end 
was  in  sight.  Instinct  told  her  that  a  mother  must 
recognise  her  own  son,  that  something  impossible  to 
anticipate  or  guard  against  would  reveal  one  to  the 
other. 

Within  a  week  Min  wrote: 

"  I'm  having  a  ripping  time.  Mr.  Gasgoyne  has 
lent  me  a  rifle  and  given  me  a  split-cane  salmon  rod. 
Mrs.  Gasgoyne  turned  up  unexpectedly  from  Nauheim, 
and  has  been  very  decent  to  me ;  but  I  don't  like  her, 
and  I  can't  make  out  why  Mr.  Gasgoyne  married  her- 
It  seems  horrid  to  write  such  things  under  her  own 
roof,  but  you  told  me  to  be  sure  to  tell  you  everything, 
so  here  goes.  She  has  been  ill,  but  she  doesn't  look  it, 
because  she's  so  wonderfully  made  up.  Of  course 
she  must  have  been  a  stunner  once,  but  now  I  think  she 
looks  awful.  Mummie,  I  should  die  of  shame  if  she 
were  my  mother.  When  I  compare  her  with  you,  I 
tell  myself  I'm  the  luckiest  beggar.  I  never  meet  her 
till  dinner-time,  because  I'm  out  on  the  hill  all  day  long. 
She  talks  to  me  a  lot,  but  it's  something  awful  the  way 
she  rags  Mr.  Gasgoyne — and  before  the  servants,  too ! 
He  never  says  a  word — he  is  a  ripper! — but  if  she 
makes  it  too  hot,  he  talks  to  his  dog.  If  I  married  a 


268  H  E  R     S  O  N 

woman  like  that,  I  should  always  have  a  dog  handy.  I 
feel  rather  a  beast,  but  I  am  most  awfully  sorry  for 
Mr.  Gasgoyne.  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  destroyed  this  ingenuous  epistle.  But  one 
line  of  it  haunted  her  night  and  day :  "  I  should  die  of 
shame  if  she  were  my  mother."  Of  course  boys  exag- 
gerated everything.  Min  would  not  die;  but,  from  her 
knowledge  of  his  character,  it  was  certain  that  the 
truth  might  discolour  his  life,  and  by  changing  his 
point  of  view  change  him,  perhaps  unrecognisably, 
However,  she  could  do  nothing  but  pray ;  and  pray  she 
did  with  amazing  fervour,  tempered  always  by  the  con- 
viction that  a  crisis  was  at  hand. 

Meantime,  at  Ben  Aber,  the  days  were  passing 
swiftly.  Crystal  asked  Min  a  few  discreet  questions 
concerning  his  life  at  Winchester.  According  to 
the  young  fellow,  there  had  been  no  renewal  of  inter- 
course between  Dorothy  and  Dick.  If  they  met  it  was 
in  secret,  probably  not  in  Winchester.  Believing  Dor- 
othy to  be  a  saint,  Crystal  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Dick  had  told  the  exact  truth  when  he  assured  her  that 
Dorothy  refused  a  renewal  of  acquaintance.  Obvi- 
ously, also,  Dick  had  asked  the  boy  to  Ben  Aber  because 
he  was  a  nice  boy,  and  able  to  inspire  an  interest  greater 
than  the  merely  sentimental  one  that  he  happened  to 
be  the  son  of  the  woman  Dick  had  once  wished  to  marry. 
She  quite  approved  Dick's  wish  that  he  should  be  given 
a,  billet  in  Fleet  Street.  Something  was  owing  to  Dor- 
othy, and  the  account  could  be  settled  vicariously  by 
befriending  her  son. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  269 

It  Is  often  amusing,  and  always  instructive,  to  trace 
great  events  to  their  tiny  sources.  Humanly  speak- 
ing, Crystal  might  have  lived  and  died  in  ignorance  of 
Min's  relation  to  Dick  had  it  not  been  for  the  appear- 
ance of  a  garrulous  neighbour  at  Ben  Aber.  The 
stranger  was  the  wife  of  a  rich  Glasgow  manufacturer 
who  had  leased  the  forest  adjoining  Ben  Aber.  Born 
and  brought  up  in  Paisley,  this  lady  knew  nothing  of 
the  Gasgoynes,  and  had  never  met  either  of  them  be- 
fore. She  drove  over  one  Sunday  to  ask  some  questions 
concerning  the  march,  whose  exact  position  it  was  pro- 
posed to  define  by  erecting  a  few  small  cairns.  Dick 
settled  the  business  in  a  few  minutes.  Then  Min  came 
in.  Before  Crystal  could  present  him,  the  stranger  said 
volubly : 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  who  this  is.  Your  laddie,  of 
course:  and  the  very  living  breathing  image  of  Mr. 
Gasgoyne." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Crystal  coldly.  "  This 
is  Mr.  Armine,  a  friend,  and  no  relation  either  to  Mr. 
Gasgoyne  or  myself." 

A  London  woman  would  have  laughed  and  apolo- 
gised; but  north  of  the  Tweed  discussion  and  self- justi- 
fication are  regarded  as  pastimes.  The  good  Paisley 
lady  insisted  upon  the  likeness,  pointed  out  half  a  dozen 
points  of  resemblance,  and  triumphantly  demonstrated 
her  powers  of  observation.  Then  Min  said  with  a  flush : 

"  Pm  j  oily  glad  I  am  like  you,  sir." 

Dick  nodded  with  an  impassive  face.  He  had  reck- 
oned upon  the  possibility  of  Crystal's  detecting  the 
likeness,  a  possibility  discounted  by  his  knowledge  of 


270  H  E  R     S  0  N 

her  limitations.  In  common  with  most  self-absorbed, 
clever  persons,  her  powers  of  observation  were  habitu- 
ally focussed  upon  herself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
had  not  perceived  the  resemblance  till  it  was  pointed 
out. 

Then  it  took  hold  of  her,  obsessed  her,  tore  her  in 
twain.  She  went  to  her  own  room,  after  the  departure 
of  the  garrulous  guest,  pleading  fatigue,  but  dissem- 
bling her  real  feelings  with  such  art  that  Dick,  although 
alert,  detected  no  signs  of  stress.  Perhaps  Crystal  was 
most  clever  in  what  she  called  "  finding  people  out," 
because,  being  guileful  herself,  she  suspected  and  was 
swift  to  detect  guile  in  others.  Her  experience  as  a 
fine  lady,  as  an  "  ornament  of  society,"  had  not  dimin- 
ished such  perceptions.  She  had  seen  and  heard  some 
very  remarkable  things  during  the  period  of  translation 
from  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road  to  Carlton  House  Terrace. 
But  always  she  had  believed  Dorothy  to  be — as  she  put 
it — too  good  for  Dick,  or  any  other  man.  And  always, 
let  it  be  remembered,  she  had  confessed  herself  unable 
to  understand  Dorothy's  unselfishness  in  postponing 
her  engagement.  Incapable  of  such  an  act  of  self-sac- 
rifice, she  had  exalted  Dorothy  high  above  others  of  her 
sex.  From  the  very  first  meeting  she  had  surrendered 
to  a  power  which  transcended  her  intelligence.  Crystal 
never  attempted  to  impute  to  Dorothy  any  motive  save 
the  obvious  one.  It  is  true  that  she  underrated  Doro- 
thy's capacity  for  passionate  love.  When  Dick  told 
her  that  Dorothy  must  have  married  Armine  soon  after 
his  departure  for  Africa,  she  had  said  curtly :  "  She 
never  cared  for  you  as  I  did,  Dick — she  couldn't"; 


H  E  R     S  O  N  271 

but  this  conviction  increased  rather  than  diminished 
her  faith  in  the  other's  goodness. 

Now,  a  monstrous  motive  darkened  her  horizon. 
What  if  the  engagement  between  Dick  and  Dorothy 
had  been  broken  off  before  her  visit  to  Oakley  Street? 
Dick,  always  intensely  ambitious,  might  very  well  have 
postponed  marriage  till  after  his  return  from  Africa. 

At  once,  Dorothy's  subsequent  conduct,  her  sympa- 
thy for  a  fellow-sufferer,  .her  mysterious  disappearance, 
her  apocryphal  marriage  with  a  man  whom  nobody  had 
ever  known  or  heard  of,  her  separation  from  her  own 
people,  her  absurd  suppression  of  her  maiden  name — 
kept  secret  even  from  her  own  son — these  things  indi- 
cated mischief.  Why  did  this  young  Armine  adore  his 
mother  and  never  mention  his  father? 

Fact  after  fact  lent  colour — a  flaming  scarlet — to- 
ner conviction  that  Dorothy  had  been  left  in  exactly 
the  same  unhappy  plight  as  herself.  Doubtless  Doro- 
thy had  hoped  that  Dick  would  return  and  marry  her, 
and  doubtless,  also,  Dick  would  have  done  so  had  not 
Dorothy  overreached  herself  by  hiding  in  Touraine 
under  the  name  of  Armine.  Dick,  of  course,  had  found 
her  masquerading  as  wife  or  widow,  and  had  bolted. 
Then  he  had  married,  partly  out  of  pique,  partly  be- 
cause a  "  star  "  had  dazzled  him,  partly  as  an  act  of 
reparation.  Too  late,  he  had  met  Dorothy  and  learned 
the  truth.  Ever  since,  the  pair  had  carried  on  a  shame- 
ful and  detestable  intrigue.  She  writhed,  thinking  how 
cleverly  they  had  played  their  little  comedy,  how  easily 
they  had  befooled  her.  At  this  moment,  doubtless,  they 
were  laughing  in  their  sleeves,  immeasurably  amused 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

at  her  blindness  and  fatuity.  She  could  see  Dorothy 
attending  service  in  the  cathedral  with  her  tongue  in 
her  cheek. 

After  a  wretched,  sleepless  night,  she  came  to  a  de- 
termination. Realising  that  she  must  obtain  more  evi- 
dence before  she  exposed  her  husband,  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  leave  the  lodge  at  once.  Dick  would  be  relieved 
rather  than  surprised.  And  he  was  accustomed  to  her 
flittings.  She  lay  in  bed  till  the  hour  was  past  when 
the  men  started  on  their  respective  beats.  Then  she 
told  her  maid  to  pack  up,  and  wrote  the  following  note : 

"  I  am  sick  of  Ben  Aber,  and  must  see  my  doctor. 
Will  wire  future  movements  from  town.  Say  good-bye 
to  young  Armine  for  me." 

Having  written  this,  she  became  conscious  of  a 
strange  physical  exhilaration.  Lassitude  and  misery 
gave  place  to  a  vital  and  vivifying  excitement.  She 
told  herself  that  she  was  quite  strong  enough  to  carry 
on  a  campaign  against  shamelessness  and  lies,  able  to 
expose  her  enemies,  to  destroy  them  and  their  works. 

She  came  downstairs  in  her  travelling  dress  about 
half -past  ten.  A  "  machine  "  was  waiting  to  take  her 
and  her  maid  to  Lairg.  She  sat  down  for  a  moment 
upon  a  bench  outside  the  lodge,  a  place  commanding  a 
delightful  view  of  the  Shin  and  the  moors  stretching 
far  as  the  eye  could  see  in  a  southerly  direction.  To 
the  north  rose  the  splendid  peak  of  Ben  Klibreck;  to 
the  west  were  Ben  Hope,  Ben  Hee,  and  Ben  Loyal. 
The  day  was  a  fine  one  in  late  September,  cloudless,  but 
with  enough  breeze  to  make  stalking  practicable,  and 


HER     SON 

with  that  crisp  feeling  in  the  air  indicating  frost  and 
the  absence  of  midges. 

"  Hullo,  Mrs.  Gasgoyne ! "  said  a  youthful  voice. 

She  looked  up  to  see  Min.  He  explained  quickly 
that  something  had  gone  amiss  with  his  rifle;  he  had 
returned  for  another,  and  learned  from  a  servant  that 
she  was  leaving.  As  he  spoke  she  noted  that  the  little 
finger  of  his  left  hand  stood  out — a  trick  common  to 
Dick.  His  eyes  sparkled  behind  their  dark  lashes,  just 
as  Dick's  had  sparkled  when  he  was  young,  and  broker 
and  green! 

"  Are  you  feeling  worse  to-day?  "  the  young  fellow: 
asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Crystal. 

"  I  shall  see  you  off,"  he  declared. 

But  she  refused  this  peremptorily,  staring  at  him  so 
hard  that  he  blushed,  and  begged  to  know  if  anything 
was  wrong. 

"  I  hope  my  face  is  clean."  He  rubbed  it,  trying 
to  interpret  the  expression  in  her  eyes.  She  had  just 
decided  that  his  hair  waved  back  from  the  temples  as 
Dick's  used  to  grow  before  time  and  worry  thinned  it. 

"  Quite  clean.  You're  a  nice  boy,  a  very  nice  boy. 
How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Eighteen." 

Had  she  asked  his  exact  age  the  truth  would  have 
been  revealed.  At  that  moment  she  was  thinking  of 
the  child  left  in  the  Institution  for  Little  Mistakes.  He 
also  would  have  been  eighteen.  This  youth,  doubtless, 
was  a  few  months  younger. 


H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  abruptly,  rising  and  holding 
out  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Gasgoyne:  I  wish  you'd  change 
your  mind  about  my  putting  you  into  the  train  and 
making  you  cosy." 

"  Cosy !  "  She  smiled  derisively.  "  I  can  make  my- 
self cosy." 

"  You  and  Mr.  Gasgoyne  have  been  most  awfully 
good  to  me.  A  chap  I  know  said  he'd  never  heard  of 
such  luck.  Lots  of  fathers,  he  said,  grudged  stags  to 
their  own  sons." 

The  maid  appeared  with  a  travelling  rug  and  small 
bag.  Crystal  got  into  the  "  machine,"  which  rattled 
off.  As  she  looked  back,  she  saw  Min  standing  bare- 
lieaded,  smiling,  and  waving  his  cap. 

"  I  was  blind  not  to  have  seen  it  at  once,"  she  re- 
flected. 

Travelling  south,  she  grew  calmer — the  presence 
of  a  lynx-eyed  maid  exacted  calmness — and  presently  a 
smile  twisted  her  lips,  for  she  was  reflecting  that  if 
Dick  had  played  with  love,  he  had  slaved  for  ambition. 
And  within  a  few  weeks  one  of  his  ambitions  was  likely 
to  be  gratified.  He  had  always  desired  to  represent 
a  great  constituency  in  Parliament.  Safe  and  secure 
seats  had  been  offered  to  him;  these  he  had  refused. 
But  his  influence  had  been  placed  unreservedly  at  the 
disposition  of  his  party;  and  some  of  his  followers 
maintained  that  the  continuance  of  that  party  in  power 
was  largely  due  to  the  newspapers  controlled  by  him. 
Upon  the  eve  of  breaking  up  for  the  holidays,  the  pri- 
vate secretary  of  the  Prime  Minister  had  intimated  that 


H  E  R     S  O  N  275 

one  of  the  big  men  was  about  to  retire  owing  to  ill- 
health,  and  that  Mr.  Gasgoyne's  great  services  would 
at  last  be  adequately  rewarded. 

"  I  hold  Dick  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,"  Crystal  mut- 
tered to  herself. 

She  reached  Euston  at  eight  the  next  morning  and 
drove  to  Carlton  House  Terrace.  Excitement  still 
sustained  her,  but  her  face,  even  in  a  designedly  flat- 
tering mirror,  was  not  a  pleasant  object  to  contemplate. 
Despite  the  protests  of  her  maid,  whom  she  left  behind 
in  town,  she  took  the  train  to  Winchester  that  same 
afternoon.  For  the  second  time  in  her  life  one  over- 
powering desire  possessed  her:  to  injure  Dorothy. 

Susan  Judkins  opened  the  door  after  a  cab  had  set 
Crystal  down  at  the  gate  of  the  small  semi-detached 
villa  in  St.  Cross  Road.  Susan  was  now  on  the  shady 
side  of  sixty,  but  she  told  herself  triumphantly  that  she 
neither  looked  nor  felt  her  age.  Moreover,  her  in- 
stincts were  as  keen  as  of  yore.  She  said  afterwards 
that  she  recognised  trouble  as  soon  as  she  saw  Crystal's 
face. 

"  I  have  come  from  Scotland  to  see  Mrs.  Armine. 
Is  she  at  home?  " 

"  Not  at  home,  m'm." 

Dorothy  was  at  home,  but  the  faithful  Susan  had  no 
intention  whatever  of  ushering  an  enemy  into  the  pres- 
ence of  an  unsuspecting  mistress. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  m'm." 

"When  wiU  she  be  in?" 


276  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  She  may  be  in  about  dinner  time.  Leastways,  she 
is  not  dining  out." 

Crystal  scribbled  an  address  upon  a  card. 

'*  I  am  stopping  the  night  at  an  hotel.  I  will  come 
back  after  dinner,  unless  Mrs.  Armine  prefers  to  call 
upon  me  at  the  hotel." 

"  Very  good,  m'm." 

Susan  shut  the  door,  and  glanced  at  the  thin  piece 
of  pasteboard  in  her  hand.  Her  expression  was  com- 
posed as  she  murmured :  "  We've  waited  eighteen  years 
for  this,  and  we  can  wait  five  minutes  longer." 

She  went  back  to  the  pantry.  Securely  locked  up 
in  a  cupboard  stood  a  bottle  of  ginger  wine  used  by 
Susan  in  moments  of  depression  or  when  the  weather 
turned  cold.  Of  this  cordial  she  took  a  full  dose,  eyeing 
the  card  upon  the  dresser  as  if  it  were  a  cobra.  Doro- 
thy was  in  her  garden,  a  narrow  strip  at  the  back  full 
of  flowers,  which  she  cultivated  herself.  Susan  put 
back  the  bottle  of  ginger  wine  and  slammed  the  cup- 
board door. 

"  Lor' !    How  wicked  she  looked !  " 

The  faithful  creature  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
her  forehead.  In  a  sense  she  realised  that  she  was  the 
innocent  party  to  a  crime:  about  to  shatter,  for  ever 
perhaps,  the  sweet  peace  of  that  garden  yonder,  to 
turn  it  into  a  wilderness  if  Crystal  had  come  to  take 
away  Min.  The  soft  mellow  tone  of  the  Winchester 
buildings  had  diffused  itself  over  Susan,  softening  some 
hard  angles  and  lines.  Upon  her  the  moss  had  grown 
imperceptibly  as  she  had  taken  firmer  and  deeper  root 
in  the  friable  Hampshire  soil.  Winchester  satisfied  her : 


H  E  R     S  O  N  277 

it  was  so  pre-eminently  quiet,  respectable,  and  English. 
The  deep  tones  of  the  cathedral  bell  were  celestial  music 
to  this  ancient  handmaiden,  whose  life  had  been  one 
long  service.  From  her  pantry  window  she  could  see 
the  policeman  on  his  beat.  Soldiers  marched  up  and 
down  the  St.  Cross  Road  past  the  cemetery  where  Susan 
had,  in  fancy,  selected  a  snug  resting-place.  There,  in 
the  words  of  the  old  song,  she  would  "  do  nothing  for 
ever  and  ever,"  after  the  interminable  labours  of  sixty 
years. 

"  She  knows,"  said  Susan,  wiping  her  eyes. 

She  had  the  habit  of  speaking  aloud,  particularly 
when  deeply  moved.  Having  once  predicted  discovery, 
its  fulfilment  exasperated  her,  because,  like  Dorothy, 
she  had  grown  to  believe  in  their  sanctuary.  Those 
unfortunate  persons  who  are  constrained  to  live  in 
countries  where  terrible  earthquakes  have  taken  place, 
or  upon  the  slopes  of  volcanoes,  will  sympathise  with 
Susan  Judkins. 

"  Well,  Susan,  the  fish  has  not  come,  I  see." 

In  silence  Susan  held  out  Crystal's  card,  which  she 
carried  hidden  in  her  hand  instead  of  on  a  salver,  so 
that  the  expression  of  her  face  might  prepare  Dorothy 
for  an  abominable  surprise. 

"  She's  come  to  tear  your  heart  out,  but  this  time  I 
wasn't  fool  enough  to  let  her  in." 

"  Ah ! "  sighed  Dorothy,  as  the  card  fluttered  to  the 
ground.  Then,  for  a  moment,  mistress  and  servant,  or 
shall  we  say  rather  friend  and  friend,  gazed  at  each 
other. 

"  You  think  she  knows  ?  "  faltered  Dorothy. 


278  H  E  R     S  0  N 

"  I  know  she  knows." 

"  If  she  has  told— Min?  " 

"  She  hasn't  yet,"  said  Susan  grimly.  "  If  she  had, 
he'd  have  been  here  first,  bless  his  heart ! " 

"  God  help  us,  Susan !  " 

"  Amen,  m'm." 

Dorothy  drew  off  her  gardening  gauntlets  and 
gazed  steadily  at  the  garden  once  used  as  a  bare  yard 
for  hanging  out  washing,  now  fragrant  with  the  roses 
she  had  planted.  Susan  followed  her  thought  un- 
erringly. 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  her  turn  us  out  of  this  ?  " 

"I  shall  fight  for  our  Paradise,"  Dorothy  said. 
Then,  as  Susan  mumbled  Crystal's  message,  Dorothy's 
face  brightened. 

"  Susan,  I  shall  go  to  the  hotel." 

Susan  began  to  shake. 

"Susan !" 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  oh,  Miss  Dorothy !  There's  mischief, 
hatefulness,  plain  as  print  on  her  painted  face ! " 

She  burst  into  sobs.  Dorothy  tried  to  comfort  her, 
stroked  her  rough  worn  hands,  led  her  to  a  bench,  and 
sat  down  beside  her. 

"  That's  why  I  wouldn't  let  her  in.  Oh,  my  poor 
lamb,  I'll  see  her.  Wouldn't  that  be  better  than  ginger 
wine!  I'll  bring  her  to  her  knees." 

Dorothy  kissed  her. 

"  Does  that  mean — yes  ?  " 

"Min  is  legally  mine,"  said  Dorothy  firmly.  Then, 
with  a  gentle  shake,  she  added :  "  When  I  come  back 
I  shall  want  something  very  nice  to  eat.  You  mustn't 


H  E  R     S  O  N  279 

neglect  my  dinner,  you  dear  old  Susan.  No,  don't  say 
anything,  but  believe  that  I'm  not  afraid,  that  I  can 
hold — my  own." 

"  You  mean  Master  Min  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  mean  him — my  son." 

She  spoke  the  words  proudly.  A  slightly  bent  and 
broken  Susan  went  back  into  the  house. 

Meantime,  Crystal  had  returned  to  the  hotel,  and 
feeling  like  her  humble  sister  in  need  of  a  cordial,  had 
ordered  a  pint  of  champagne.  The  champagne  stim- 
ulated her  intelligence.  She  told  herself  that  a  slight 
delay  might  be  made  profitable.  In  her  haste,  she  had 
neglected  a  cardinal  principle  of  warfare.  She  had 
rushed,  so  to  speak,  upon  the  enemy  without  first  ac- 
quiring all  the  knowledge  at  her  disposition.  As  a 
greasy,  shifty-eyed  waiter  was  uncorking  the  cham- 
pagne, she  asked  a  question :  "  Did  he  know  Mr. 

Armine,  who  had  played  in  the  Winchester  Eleven  ?  " 
The  waiter  knew  the  young  gentleman,  and  his  mother, 
a  sweet  lady,  much  respected  in  the  Close  and  out  of  it. 
Within  five  minutes  Crystal  had  squeezed  this  orange 
dry.  She  tipped  him  sixpence,  having  conscientious 
scruples  concerning  the  over-tipping  of  servants,  and 
told  him  he  might  finish  the  champagne,  of  which  about 
half  a  glass  was  left.  As  the  man  was  leaving  the  room, 
she  told  him  to  show  Mrs.  Armine  up  if  she  happened 
to  call.  Then,  for  the  second  time,  she  examined  her- 
self in  the  glass.  Her  nose  being  slightly  red,  she  pow- 
dered it,  smiling  maliciously.  She  added  a  touch  of 
paint  to  her  lips,  frowning  because  they  looked  blue. 


280  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Some  twenty  minutes  later  Dorothy  entered  the  room. 
At  first  glance  an  unobservant  stranger  might  have 
pronounced  Crystal  the  younger-looking  of  the  two. 
Her  hair,  of  a  fashionable  auburn  tint,  surmounted  a 
face  which  was  an  admirable  work  of  art,  and  a  figure 
seemingly  youthful  and  supple.  But  if  the  complexion 
appeared  free  from  wrinkles,  if  no  grey  hairs  could  be 
detected  among  the  auburn  tresses,  if  the  slender  limbs 
were  those  of  a  girl,  nevertheless  this  shadowy  impres- 
sion of  youth  revealed  mercilessly  the  solid  reality  of 
age.  Dorothy  perceived  that  Dick's  wife  was  worn 
out,  jaded,  a  boggart  of  a  woman  painted  and  bedecked. 

What  Crystal  saw  is  not  so  easily  described.  Doro- 
thy had  come  straight  from  the  garden,  where  she  had 
spent  so  many  serene  and  pleasant  hours.  About  her 
hung  the  faint  fragrance  of  roses ;  upon  her  face  and 
in  her  eyes  lay  the  glow  which  seems  to  emanate  from 
places  long  warmed  by  sun.  Youthful  in  appearance, 
none  could  call  her.  The  hair  grew  thickly  still,  but 
lines  lay  about  the  clear  eyes  and  beautiful  mouth ;  the 
figure  had  assumed  the  gracious  dignity  of  the  prime 
of  life;  and  perhaps  the  dominant  note  of  the  whole 
personality  was  a  certain  sweet  austerity  of  bearing 
which  stood  for  and  expressed  subtly  all  that  she  had 
lost  and  gained.  Crystal,  regarding  her  with  envious 
eyes,  hating  her  furiously,  perceived  this,  and,  per- 
ceiving it,  realised  her  own  immeasurable  inferiority. 
As  the  door  closed,  she  broke  into  a  shrill  laugh.  Her 
first  words  were :  "  How  virtuous  you  look !  " 

Dorothy  paused,  shocked  by  the  passion  which  con- 
vulsed the  other,  trying  to  find  a  phrase  adequate  for 


H  E  R     S  O  N  281 

such  a  moment.  Then  she  became  conscious  that  Crys- 
tal would  find  the  phrases,  that  she  would  need  fortitude 
to  listen  to  them  in  silence. 

"  I  know — I  have  guessed — everything." 

"Everything?" 

Her  quiet  voice  exasperated  the  other  beyond  endur- 
ance. Carefully  considered  sentences  faded  out  of  her 
mind.  She  became  primal,  elemental :  her  fingers  curled 
inwards ;  she  showed  her  teeth  in  a  snarling  smile. 

"  Don't  dare  to  lie  to  me !  " 

"What  do  you  know?" 

"  That  you  are  a  fraud  and  a  hypocrite,  living  here 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  when  you  ought  to  be  in " 

"  Stop,"  said  Dorothy,  holding  up  her  hand.  "  I 
have  come  here  at  your  request;  I  will  answer  your 
questions,  but  at  the  first  word  of  abuse  I  go." 

"  There  never  was  an  Armine." 

"  If  you  know  everything  you  know  that." 

"  And  I  thought  you  a  saint !  You  are  a  better 
actress  than  I !  " 

She  laughed  shrilly.  The  laugh  sounded  uncanny 
to  Dorothy:  a  signal  of  danger.  For  the  moment  she 
wondered  whether  Crystal  were  quite  sane. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  she  murmured  in  a  different 
voice. 

"  Not  well  ?  I'm  well  enough  to  expose  you.  And 
you  dare  to  stand  there,  brazening  it  out !  " 

Dorothy  frowned. 

"  It  will  be  simpler,"  she  said  steadily,  "  if  you  will 
tell  me  exactly  what  you  know  and  what  you  want." 

Crystal  came  a  step  nearer.     By  this  time  Dorothy 


282  H  E  R     S  O  N 

had  divined  the  other's  jealousy,  nothing  more,  and 
was  prepared  to  make  allowance  for  it. 

"  I  know  that  you  have  been  carrying  on  a  shameful 
intrigue  with  Dick  for  years,  and  that  this  boy  is  his 
son  and  yours." 

Unhappily,  Dorothy  smiled. 

Never  once  had  it  occurred  to  her  that  Crystal  could 
make  such  an  absurd  mistake.  She  had  known  that  at 
any  moment  Min  might  be  revealed  to  Crystal  as  Dick's 
son,  and  she  had  always  taken  for  granted  that  such  a 
demonstration  on  Crystal's  part  included  the  corollary 
that  the  boy  was  Crystal's  son  also.  Her  smile  indi- 
cated surprise,  relief,  and  sympathy.  Not  so  was  it 
interpreted  by  the  furious  creature  opposite.  To  Crys- 
tal, the  smile  was  the  culminating  insult,  the  disdainful 
triumphant  challenge  of  a  rival  who  dared  her  to  do 
and  say  her  worst.  With  twitching  features  and  trem- 
bling hands  she  abandoned  all  restraint.  Her  voice 
rose  shrilly  clear  and  penetrating. 

"You !" 

She  used  a  word  to  be  found  in  the  Bible  and  in 
Shakespeare,  but  unprintable  here.  Dorothy  recoiled 
as  if  a  terrific  blow  had  struck  her.  Colour  left  her 
cheeks ;  in  her  heart  some  machine  seemed  to  be  throb- 
bing with  inexorable  violence,  but,  dominating  every 
other  emotion,  pity  rose  instantly  to  her  lips;  and 
from  her  fine  eyes,  so  tender  and  steadfast,  an  inde- 
scribable radiance  flashed  its  message.  Crystal,  half 
blind  as  she  was,  perceived  this  amazing  transfigura- 
tion, and  stared  open-mouthed,  stricken  dumb  by  a 


H  E  R     S  O  N  £83 

power  she  could  not  apprehend  or  withstand.  Then 
Dorothy  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  My  poor  Crystal,  may  God  help  you !  Min  is 
Dick's  son,  who  was  born  to  you  at  Saint-Malo,  left  by 
you  in  Paris,  and  adopted  by  me." 

The  whole  sentence,  so  often  thought  out,  falling 
now  so  quietly  and  yet  so  solemnly  upon  the  silence, 
pierced  its  way  straight  to  Crystal's  heart. 

The  effect  upon  her  was  instantaneous  and  extraor- 
dinary. She  staggered  forward,  staring  wildly  into 
Dorothy's  eyes,  reading  in  them  the  whole  truth ;  read- 
ing also  the  pity,  the  sympathy,  the  intelligence  which, 
years  ago  in  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road,  had  distinguished 
her  from  every  other  woman  Crystal  had  known.  Truth 
presents  herself  in  so  many  nebulous  forms,  and  human 
eyes  are  so  ill-adapted  to  penetrate  obscuring  mists, 
that,  for  the  most  part,  we  seldom  perceive  the  goddess 
until  she  has  passed  us  by.  When  she  does  choose  to 
reveal  herself,  naked  and  glorious,  the  effect  of  her 
divine  personality  is  nearly  always  overwhelming. 

"  Oh,  Christ ! "  she  faltered  in  utter  collapse. 

Dorothy  supported  her  to  a  sofa  and  rang  the  bell. 
The  greasy,  shifty-eyed  waiter  answered  it  with  sus- 
picious alacrity.  He  was  despatched  for  restoratives 
and  a  doctor.  Crystal  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  speak !  "  said  Dorothy. 

Crystal's  lips  closed,  not  her  eyes,  into  which  came 
a  strange  expression.  What  did  she  see?  Perhaps  the 
supreme  vision  was  vouchsafed  her:  a  glimpse  of  that 
Eternal  Love,  absolutely  selfless,  of  which  Dorothy's 


284  H  E  R     S  O  N 

life  had  been  a  faint  earthly  manifestation.  Perhaps 
she  looked  back,  not  forward,  seeing  every  inch  of  the 
road  down  which  she  had  raced  so  recklessly.  How 
pitifully  small  were  her  triumphs  now!  How  drab! 
She  had  desired  two  things  inordinately:  the  acclaim 
of  the  multitude  and  marriage  with  a  man  who  had 
never  loved  her.  For  these  she  had  sacrificed  her  child. 
Did  she  miss  his  tears,  his  strong  young  arms,  his 
kisses,  as  the  light  failed,  as  the  waters  rose? 

"  You  made  the  boy  what  he  is,"  she  whispered. 

Dorothy  placed  her  hand  lightly  upon  the  quivering 
lips,  enjoining  silence,  but  Crystal  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  done  for,"  she  gasped.  "  And  I've  something 
to  say.  Hold  up  my  head !  " 

Dorothy  did  so. 

"  Don't— let— him— know ! " 

The  cruel  struggle  for  breath  overpowered  her. 
Again  she  repeated: 

"  Don't— let— the— boy— know ! " 

She  never  spoke  another  articulate  word,  but  the 
entreaty  in  her  eyes  was  unmistakable.  Dorothy  said 
quickly : 

"  You  wish  Min  to  believe  that  I  am  his  mother?  " 

Crystal  nodded  and  closed  her  eyes  as  the  house- 
keeper appeared  with  brandy  and  sal  volatile,  unavail- 
ingly  applied,  for  long  before  the  doctor  came  Crystal 
had  gone,  leaving  behind  that  poor,  thin,  painted  mask 
which — can  we  doubt  it? — she  was  willing  enough  at 
the  last  to  cast  aside.  Dorothy's  tears  fell  on  the 
hands  that  long  ago  had  ministered  to  Dick. 


CHAPTER   XVm 

AT  the  inquest  the  coroner  asked  many  questions  of 
Mrs.  Arraine,  questions  which — as  the  Hampshire  Inde- 
pendent declared  in  a  scathing  editorial — the  lady 
seemed  deliberately  to  evade  or  ignore.  The  waiter, 
loitering  in  the  passage  and  not  far  from  the  door, 
testified  that  he  had  heard  Mrs.  Gasgoyne's  voice  raised 
in  anger.  Finally,  under  great  pressure,  he  swore  to 
overhearing  that  dreadful  word  of  which  mention  has 
been  made.  He  whispered  it — the  wretched  eaves- 
dropper— but  it  rang  through  Winchester.  Susan 
Judkins — stigmatised  as  an  obstinate  and  prevaricat- 
ing witness — admitted  with  reluctance  that  her  mistress 
had  been  at  home  when  the  deceased  lady  called  at  the 
house  in  St.  Cross  Road.  Mr.  Gasgoyne,  who  seemed 
to  be  deeply  moved,  gave  evidence  that  his  wife 
had  left  Ben  Aber  lodge  suddenly,  leaving  no  message 
behind  her  other  than  that  she  was  taking  the  next 
train  to  town.  Mrs.  Gasgoyne's  maid  spoke  of  her 
mistress's  excitement  and  nervousness  during  the  jour- 
ney. Finally,  Sir  Bodley  Skeffington  declared  his  opin- 
ion that  any  undue  excitement  or  shock  was  likely  to 
have  fatal  consequences,  inasmuch  as  his  late  patient 
was  suffering  from  valvular  disease  of  the  heart. 

Those  who  have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  the  victims 
of  gossip  in  a  cathedral  town  will  not  require  to  be 
told  that  Dorothy's  name  grew  rank  in  the  mouth  of 
every  man  and  woman,  gentle  and  simple,  in  the  ancient 

285 


286  H  E  R     S  O  N 

city.  In  the  opinion  of  the  jury — her  own  butcher 
was  of  their  number — she  was  black  as  the  ace  of 
spades,  save  where  the  scarlet  letter  flared  upon  her 
bosom. 

Two  terrible  days  followed,  because  Min  arrived. 
Dorothy  saw  him  reading  the  Hampshire  Independent, 
saw  him  tear  up  the  paper,  and  then  glance  with  hungry 
interrogation  at  herself.  Tremblingly  she  asked: 

"You  trust  me,  Min?" 

"  Before  all  the  world,"  he  answered,  kissing  her. 

"My  son,  you  will  do  nothing — violent?" 

He  confessed  that  horsewhipping  was  in  his  mind — 
the  editor  was  a  cur  to  be  thrashed  within  an  inch  of  his 
worthless  life.  Under  entreaty  he  promised  to  leave 
curs  unpunished,  but  Dorothy  perceived  that  her  silence 
was  driving  him  wild. 

She  had  had  one  interview  with  Gasgoyne.  He  had 
implored  her  to  tell,  or  to  allow  him  to  tell,  the  truth 
at  the  inquest — the  obvious,  the  sensible,  and  ultimately 
the  kindest  thing  to  do.  Dorothy  refused.  She  fol- 
lowed his  arguments,  understood  them,  sympathised 
with  them,  and  saw — Min — Min  the  target  for  every 
eye  in  the  town  where  he  had  carried  himself  so 
proudly,  Min  publicly  proclaimed  to  be  base  born. 
And  that  such  a  bolt  should  fall  upon  him  without  prep- 
aration was  to  her  unthinkable. 

"  You  must  give  me  time,"  she  said. 

"  And,  meanwhile,  my  poor  Dorothy ?  " 

"  Min  believes  in  me." 

This  interview,  as  has  been  said,  took  place  before 
the  inquest.  Immediately  afterwards,  Dick  removed 


H  E  R     S  O  N  287 

the  body  to  London,  deeming  it  expedient  that  the 
funeral  should  not  take  place  at  Winchester. 

Moira  Curragh  came  to  her  friend  at  once,  and  she, 
too,  urged  public  acknowledgment  of  the  facts,  but 
was  silenced  sooner  than  Gasgoyne,  being  a  mother 
and  able  to  see  Min  with  a  mother's  tender  eyes.  She 
used  her  old  expression: 

"  You  are  a  heavenly  fool,  Doll." 

Upon  the  Sunday  following  the  inquest  Mrs.  Chat- 
field  failed  to  see  Dorothy,  who  happened  to  leave  the 
cathedral  at  the  same  time  and  by  the  same  door  as 
herself. 

"  Mum,  she  cut  us,"  said  the  furious  Min. 

"  We  must  suffer  such  fools  gladly,"  said  Dorothy. 

Nevertheless,  the  cut  penetrated  below  the  skin. 
Dorothy,  who  in  her  youth  had  flouted  convention,  who 
had  found  life  as  it  is  lived  in  England  by  such 
magnates  as  the  Helminghams  intensely  dull  and  un- 
profitable ;  Dorothy,  who  had  said  again  and  again  that 
freedom  was  happiness,  or  at  any  rate  its  only  substi- 
tute, now  found  herself  a  very  slave  to  the  traditions 
at  which  she  had  scoffed.  Long  ago,  when  Gasgoyne 
had  told  her  that  she  hugged  her  chains  he  hit  a  truth 
which  included  fetters  other  than  a  child's  arms.  Doro- 
thy had  learned  to  love  places  as  inseparable  from 
persons.  Because  she  loved  Min,  she  loved  also  the 
quiet,  picturesque,  almost  mediaeval  city  to  which  he 
owed  so  much.  The  cathedral  where  she  had  prayed 
for  his  welfare,  the  college  meads  and  buildings,  the 
copses  where  they  had  picked  primroses,  the  silvery 
stream  upon  whose  banks  she  had  spent  so  many  placid 


288  H  E  R     S  0  N 

hours — these  things  had  become  part  of  herself.  To 
tear  loose  from  them  meant  anguish.  But,  as  the  days 
passed,  as  she  encountered  cold  looks  and  averted  eyes, 
as  she  saw  Min's  face  twisted  by  indignation  and  in- 
terrogation, she  told  herself  that  she  must  go. 

However,  some  of  her  Winchester  friends  stood 
stoutly  by  her — notably  the  Heseltines.  David  called 
upon  her  when  she  was  alone,  looking  much  less  cool 
than  usual. 

"  Your  mother  has  been  so  kind,"  said  Dorothy, 
profoundly  touched  by  his  sympathy.  "  She  came 
to  me  at  once." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  hesitated,  slightly  flushing.  "  I  sup- 
pose she  didn't  give  you  a  hint " 

"  A  hint?  " 

"  About  me." 

"Oh!" 

Dorothy  knew  now  what  was  coming.  She  had  appre- 
hended long  ago  in  David  Heseltine  a  feeling  for  her- 
self warmer  than  friendship ;  and  she  had  been  conscious, 
very  agreeably  conscious,  that  this  feeling  was  sup- 
pressed, because  she,  on  her  part,  had  never  given  any 
encouragement  to  it.  In  her  exclamation  was  a  note 
of  weakness  as  well  as  surprise.  Heseltine  saw  that 
she  looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"  I  have  come  here,"  he  continued  quietly,  "  to  ask 
you  to  marry  me.  Wait !  I  know  that  the  feeling  you 
may  have  had  for — for  your  boy's  father,"  she  won- 
dered at  his  choice  of  words,  "  is  of  a  different  char- 
acter to  what  I  might  hope  to  inspire  in  you.  Still, 
life  being  what  it  is,  a  woman  such  as  you  must  feel 


H  E  R     S  O  N  289 

at  times  that  it  is  not  easy  to  stand  alone.  You  look 
a  little  tired.  Let  me  offer  you  this,  although  there  is 
not  much  in  it." 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  faint  smile,  as  if  he  were 
conscious  of  his  own  limitations,  particularly  in  the 
presence  of  women. 

"  You  have  heard  what  they  are  saying  about  me," 
she  faltered,  "  and  out  of  pity,  perhaps — " 

"  Thank  you  for  the  '  perhaps.'  Of  course  you 
know  that  it  is  not  pity  with  me.  I  love  you,  and  I 
think  you  like  me.  I  speak  to-day,  because  you  need 
a  man  at  your  side." 

"  You  ask  me  to  marry  you." 

"  For  my  own  sake  far  more  than  for  yours." 

"  If,  if  this  scandal  is  true,  if  I  am  a  fejnme 
taree " 

"  Even  then  I  beseech  you  to  marry  me." 

"  What  a  good  fellow  you  are !  " 

"  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  not  only  love 
you,  I  honour  and  esteem  you  more  than  any  woman 
I  know." 

"  Thank  you." 

A  silence  followed.  Heseltine  turned  and  walked 
towards  the  window.  Dorothy's  eyes  followed  him, 
noting  the  slightly  stooping  shoulders,  the  somewhat 
shabby  clothes,  the  unmistakable  air  of  the  man  who 
by  reason  of  his  own  or  by  others'  infirmities  has  been 
forced  to  halt  rather  than  run  through  life. 

For  the  moment  she  was  tempted  to  tell  him  the 
truth. 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,  my  silence  must  seem  so  odd  to  you." 


290  H  E  R     S  0  N 

He  looked  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet;  then  he 
spoke  slowly,  as  if  measuring  his  words :  "  As  for 
that,  I  am,  of  course,  no  longer  a  young  man ;  noth- 
ing strikes  me  as  particularly — odd.  Surprise  is  gen- 
erally a  synonym  for  ignorance,  isn't  it?  I  know  you 
now  fairly  well,  I  may  say,  but  what  you  were  as  a 
young  girl "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  see ;  at  least  I  have  a  glimpse.  You  would  be 
an  easy  man  to  live  with." 

"  My  mother  says  so." 

"  Your  mother.     What  about  her  ?  " 

"  She  is  ready  to  abdicate  in  your  favour,  not,  I 
fancy,  for  any  other.  She  is  particular,  is  mother." 

"  She  has  guessed,  too  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  She  is  as  wonderful  as  you  are.  And  you  would 
treat  me  as  you  treat  her — glorifying  the  best  in  me, 
blinding  yourself  and  others  to  the  less  admirable 
qualities.  But,  my  dear  friend,  have  you  really  counted 
the  cost?  Do  you  think  that  I  could  take  my  place  in 
the  collegiate  hierarchy,  be  mistress  of  a  big  house, 
play  my  part?  " 

"  I  am  prepared  to  leave  Winchester.  I  am  not  a 
poor  man.  I  am  tired  of  looking  out  of  college  win- 
dows. No,  I  should  not  dream  of  asking  you  to  look 
after  a  lot  of  turbulent  boys,  but  one  quiet,  easy-going 
man — eh?  " 

He  tried  to  read  her  with  his  pleasant,  misty  eyes, 
but  she  avoided  his  glance,  plainly  troubled.  She  was 
on  the  edge  of  surrender,  never  had  she  liked  this  kind 
friend  so  well.  And  she  was  so  sure  of  him,  so  certain 


H  E  R     S  O  N  291 

that  he  would  not  change,  that — as  he  had  said — he 
would  be  very  easy  to  live  with. 

"  Has  it  struck  you  that  Mr.  Gasgoyne  may  ask  me 
to  marry  him  ?  " 

The  abrupt  question  was  a  palpable  hit. 

"No  doubt  he  will,"  said  Heseltine.  "Still " 

He  did  not  go  on.  Dorothy  knew  that  Dick's  ambi- 
tions were  in  his  old  friend's  possession.  Dick  had 
changed  greatly.  Would  Dick  be  easy  to  live  with? 
Would  he  make  sacrifices  for  her  sake?  She  could  not 
answer,  but  she  approved  the  delicacy  in  this  man 
asking  her  first. 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  her  voice  trembled,  "  you  have 
done  me  a  very  great  honour.  And  I  wish  that  I 
could  say  *  Yes,'  but  I  must  say  *  No.'  Nothing  else  is 
possible.  Nothing  else  could  be  possible,  seeing  that 
I  am  I."  She  held  out  her  hand. 

He  accepted  defeat  gallantly,  knowing  that  further 
attack  would  be  cowardly,  as  well  as  useless. 

"  After  all,  you  have  Min,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  have  Min,"  and  saying  this,  she  told  herself 
she  was  glad  that  the  whole  truth  had  been  withheld. 

Min  knew  nothing  of  this  proposal.  He  was  very 
miserable  indeed  during  this  first  week,  although  he 
tried  to  face  calumny  valiantly.  Too  proud  to  ask 
his  mother  for  explanations,  he  told  himself  that  he 
was  old  enough  to  hear  the  truth. 

Fate  willed  that  he  should  hear  part  of  it  from 
Parflete,  who  had  been  absent  from  Winchester  at  the 
time  of  the  inquest.  Parflete  was  still  Min's  friend. 


292  H  E  R     S  O  N 

From  his  parents  he  heard  all  that  was  said  in  Win- 
chester, and  nearly  all  that  was  surmised. 

"  I  wonder  Mrs.  Armine  stays  here,"  bleated  Mrs. 
Parflete. 

"  She's  not  the  sort  to  run  away,"  said  Billy.  "  I'm 
rather  surprised  that  Min  has  not  hurt  somebody." 

"  Poor  young  man !  " 

"  The  money  for  his  schooling  came  from  Mr. 
Gasgoyne's  solicitors,"  said  the  banker.  The  three 
were  dining  alone,  and  the  servants  had  left  the  room. 
Parflete,  senior,  the  most  discreet  of  men,  frowned  as 
he  spoke ;  then  he  added :  "  I  tell  you  this,  William, 
because  you  are  about  to  be  associated  with  me  in 
business.  The  coincidence,  in  itself  not  remarkable, 
becomes  significant  in  connection  with  Mrs.  Armine's 
singular  reserve  at  the  inquest." 

"  And  there  is  a  likeness  between  Mr.  Gasgoyne  and 
Mm,"  murmured  Mrs.  Parflete. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  "  said  Billy. 

Next  day,  directly  after  breakfast,  he  called  upon 
Mrs.  Armine,  and  later  went  for  a  walk  with  Min.  For 
some  minutes  the  friends  walked  side  by  side  in  silence ; 
then  the  red-haired,  impetuous  Billy  burst  out: 

"  I  simply  can't  keep  my  mouth  shut.  I  know  that 
your  mater  and  you  are  having  a  deuce  of  a  time  of 
it,  and  I  want  to  say  once  for  all  that  I  don't  believe 
one  of  their  lies,  and  that  I  think  your  mater  the  best 
woman  on  earth — bar  none." 

"  Good  old  BiUy !  "  said  Min.  Parflete  saw  that  he 
was  too  much  moved  to  say  more,  but,  soon,  fired  by  his 
friend's  sympathy,  Min  allowed  his  feelings  to  escape. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  293 

"  I  know  nothing,  Billy.  What  are  these  lies  ? 
You're  my  pal,  let's  hear  them.  Tell  me  what  the 
devils  are  saying  about  her." 

At  once  Billy's  cheeks  became  redder  than  his  hair. 

"  I  c-c-can't." 

"You  must." 

"  They  are  saying  that  you  are  Mr.  Richard  Gas- 
goyne's  son." 

"W-w-w-what!" 

Parflete  gazed  at  his  friend  in  dismay.  Passion  had 
twisted  his  face  into  a  horrid  caricature  of  itself. 

"  There — I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you.  It's  a  lie,  of 
course." 

"  The  beasts— if  I  could  kill  them " 

"  Old  chap,  you  must  take  this  quietly." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  his  friend's  arm,  gripping  it, 
but  Min  flung  it  off. 

"  Take  it  quietly !  My  God !  Thanks  for  telling  me, 
Billy.  You're  a  pal  worth  having,  but  does  she,  my 
mother,  know  this?  " 

"  She  must." 

"  That's  why  she  wouldn't  tell  me.  Now,  look  here, 
Billy,  I  must  fight  this  out  alone;  I — I  must  walk  it 
off.  My  head  is  buzzing.  Dash  it!  I  can't  see  you 
distinctly,  the  whole  world  is  blurred.  But  I'll  be  all 
right  soon.  Only  leave  me  to  get  my  bearings,  like  a 
dear  good  chap !  " 

Billy  went  without  another  word.  Min  hurried  away 
to  a  wood  some  four  miles  from  Winchester. 

There  he  flung  himself  down  to  pass  a  bitter  hour. 
It  was  a  lovely  day  in  early  October,  and  the  trees 


HER     SON 

were  still  in  full  leaf,  although  the  beeches  were  turn- 
ing yellow.  The  wood  overhung  a  valley  of  grass 
land  running  into  down;  here  sheep  were  grazing. 
Farther  on  lay  the  snug  homestead — the  round  ricks, 
the  thatched  barns,  the  farmhouse,  glowing  red  out 
of  the  pretty  garden  which  encompassed  it.  The  whole 
represented  pastoral  England  at  its  best ;  a  landscape 
saturated  with  the  unadulterated  essence  of  Arcadia,  a 
scene  dear  to  all  Englishmen  in  remote  parts  of  the 
earth,  a  mirage  to  be  evoked  and  tenderly  welcomed 
in  desert  places.  Min,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
contemplated  the  picture  with  a  cold  and  ironic  gaze. 
For  him  the  charm  had  faded.  Mind  and  eye  pene- 
trated beneath  the  smooth  surface  of  things.  The 
pond  which  shone  with  such  silvery  radiance  was  stag- 
nant water,  teeming  with  baleful  germs,  the  homestead 
was  situated  in  a  low  and  insanitary  position,  the  soil 
upon  these  hills  lay  thin  and  sterile,  too  unprofitable 
to  cultivate.  The  farmer,  whom  Min  knew,  was  losing 
money  each  year,  clinging  desperately  to  the  old  home, 
because  his  father  and  grandfather  had  died  there, 
yet  fully  aware  that  conditions  had  changed  and  that 
he,  willy-nilly,  must  abandon  the  barren  acres.  "  I 
am  a  fool,"  he  had  said,  "  I  ought  to  have  seen  things 
as  they  are  long  ago." 

Min  recalled  these  words,  as  he  lay  staring  moodily 
at  the  sheep  grazing  placidly,  oblivious  of  the  butcher. 
A  fortnight  before  he  had  reckoned  himself  the  most 
fortunate  of  young  men.  He  had  stalked  and  killed 
handsomely  his  first  stag — a  fine  ten-pointer;  he  was 
in  perfect  health ;  he  was  enjoying  to  the  utmost  every 


H  E  R     S  O  N  295 

minute  of  his  holiday.  A  fortnight  ago,  he  had  been 
a  sheep,  a  fool! 

He  sat  up,  swearing  that  he  would  remain  a  fool  no 
longer,  even  if  the  forsaking  of  folly  meant  the  loss 
of  folly's  paradise.  The  world  was  not  what  it  seemed 
to  the  young  and  green,  and  the  men  and  women  in 
it  were  other  than  what  they  appeared. 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  staring  no  longer  at 
the  enchanted  valley,  but  at  the  ground  at  his  feet. 
A  subtle  reaction  began  to  work  in  him,  as  youth  and 
manhood  made  themselves  heard.  There  were  sheep 
and  fools  and  devils  in  the  world,  but  he  need  not  be 
of  them.  One  thing  was  certain:  his  mother  needed 
him.  If  she  had  not  spoken  to  him,  if  she  had  withstood 
his  mute  interrogation,  if  she  had  borne  uncomplain- 
ingly the  cruel  burden  of  calumny,  consideration  for 
him,  not  herself,  had  been  at  the  back  of  her  reserve. 

He  rehearsed  for  the  thousandth  time  what  he  be- 
lieved to  be  the  truth.  He  knew  that  Gasgoyne  had 
been  an  old  friend,  whence  had  sprung  this  hideous 
scandal.  And,  doubtless,  Armine,  his  father,  was  an 
obscure  person  in  Mrs.  Grundy's  eyes.  In  marrying 
Armine,  Dorothy  had  estranged  her  relations,  snobs, 
no  matter  who  they  might  be.  Then  Armine  had  died, 
and  the  widow  had  been  too  proud  to  go  back  to  her 
own  people.  She  had  remained  faithful  to  her  dead 
husband  and  his  son. 

Letting  his  mind  dwell  on  Dorothy,  Min  felt  himself 
to  be  softened  by  her  never-failing  love  and  devotion. 
That  such  a  creature  should  suffer  and  suffer  alone 
became  intolerable.  He  had  the  right  to  demand  her 


296  H  E  R     S  O  N 

fullest    confidence;    he    would    demand    it    within    the 
hour. 

He  turned  his  face  towards  Winchester. 

Meanwhile  Dorothy  was  sitting  in  her  tiny  drawing- 
room,  reading  a  long  editorial  about  Gasgoyne.  On 
her  lap  was  a  note  from  Gasgoyne,  received  that  morn- 
ing. He  wrote,  in  his  usual  abrupt  incisive  manner,  to 
say  that  he  was  in  Winchester,  "  to  see  you,  Doll,  and 
to  protect  you." 

She  had  blushed  when  she  read  the  letter,  but  she  was 
pale  enough  now,  reading  the  lines  and  between  the 
lines  of  the  article.  Thanks  to  his  almost  unique  posi- 
tion in  the  newspaper  world,  details  concerning  the  in- 
quest at  Winchester  had  not  been  printed  in  the  Lon- 
don papers.  The  world  knew  that  he  had  lost  his  wife 
suddenly,  upon  the  eve  of  a  political  triumph,  and, 
accordingly,  the  world  offered  its  sympathy.  The 
writer  of  the  editorial  dealt  with  the  domestic  affliction 
in  a  few  gracious  and  sympathetic  phrases:  then  he 
proceeded  to  forecast  the  future  career  that  awaited 
the  bereaved  man. 

"  We  cannot  doubt,"  ran  the  article,  "  that  Mr. 
Gasgoyne  has  earned  the  confidence  of  his  country.  He 
is  of  the  stuff  of  which  great  administrators  are  fash- 
ioned. To  see  him,  to  hear  him,  to  trace  and  retrace 
the  steps  by  which  he  has  reached  his  present  position 
is  to  be  reminded  irresistibly  of  Clive  and  Warren 
Hastings — men  filled  with  a  splendid  audacity,  an  all- 
conquering  personality  not  to  be  daunted  by  any  ob- 
stacles however  seemingly  unsurmountable.  .  .  ." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  297 

Dorothy  reread  Dick's  concluding  lines.  "  I  send 
you  a  clipping  from  a  morning  paper  not  controlled 
by  me.  But  my  successful  candidature  is  by  no  means 
certain." 

Dorothy  hid  both  letter  and  cutting  as  Min  came 
through  the  gate  and  ran  up  the  steps  leading  to  the 
front  door.  A  minute  later  he  was  standing  before 
her  with  a  look  upon  his  face  she  had  never  seen  be- 
fore. At  this  moment  his  likeness  to  his  father  became 
almost  uncanny.  He  took  her  hands,  pressed  them 
gently,  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  Thank  God,  I  am  a  man,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  knew  then  that  the  moment  she  had  dreaded  for 
so  many  years  had  come. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  That  I  am  old  enough  and  strong  enough,  mother, 
to  share  your  burdens." 

Dare  we  blame  her  that  she  temporised? 

"My  burdens,  Min?" 

"  Mother,  don't  play  with  me.  Is  it  fair  ?  I  have 
heard  what  they  are  saying  in  this  town.  And,  before 
we  fight  the  enemy,  we  must  have  a  council  of  war." 

His  glance,  his  firm  tone,  dominated  her.  She  sat 
down,  trembling.  Her  swift  acquiescence  slightly  per- 
plexed him.  She  had  the  air  of  a  timid  woman,  of  one 
who  shrank  from  what  was  disagreeable — an  attitude 
so  alien  to  her  that  he  eyed  her  doubtfully. 

"  You  have  always  been  so  plucky." 

She  smiled  faintly.  How  could  she  tell  him  that  she 
was  horribly  afraid  for  him,  not  for  herself?  He  con- 
tinued slowly : 


£98  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  I  can  understand  how  you  feel,  you,  the  purest 
woman  in  the  world."  He  paused  for  a  moment  to 
grapple  with  and  subdue  his  rising  rage.  When  he 
spoke  again  his  voice  was  restrained.  "  Mother,  do 
you  know  what  they  are  saying?  " 

"  I  can — guess." 

"  Before  we  face  this  lie  together,  is  there  nothing 
you  have  to  tell  me  first  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand.  Often, 
awake  at  night,  she  had  wondered  with  what  words  she 
would  break  the  truth  or  part  of  it  to  him.  Now 
she  found  herself  speechless,  unprepared,  hesitating 
whether  to  begin  at  the  beginning  or  the  end. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  have  heard,"  she  whispered. 

"  Oh,  mother,  must  I?     I  can't— I  can't." 

"  They  are  saying,  Min,  that  Mr.  Richard  Gasgoyne 
is  your  father?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  laid  her  head  against  his  broad  shoulder,  hiding 
her  face.  He  felt  her  hand  fluttering  in  his,  as  a 

hideous  doubt  assailed  him.  If  it  were  true ?  His 

cheeks  were  crimson  as  he  drove  doubt  from  him. 

"  Mother ! " 

"  Yes,  my  son." 

"Look  at  me!" 

She  raised  her  tender  eyes  to  his. 

"  I  want  to  say  this.  I  believe  in  you  as  I  believe  in 
God.  An  angel  from  heaven  couldn't  shake  my  faith 
in  you.  I  know  that  this  is  a  cruel  and  damnable  lie. 
Mother!" 


H  E  R     S  O  N  299 

She  had  risen,  and  clung  to  him  pitifully.  The 
pride  in  his  voice,  his  assured  bearing,  his  faith  in 
herself — to  crush  these  things,  to  humble  him  in  the 
dust,  to  brand  him  indelibly  as  base-born,  overwhelmed 
her.  She  heard  him  murmuring  caressing  phrases,  felt 
his  kisses  upon  her  eyes  and  forehead,  and  wished 
passionately  that  the  truth  had  been  made  plain  from 
the  beginning.  For  the  first  time  she  realised  that 
she  had  made  a  mistake;  she  ought  to  have  foreseen 
this  moment. 

Min  was  speaking  hurriedly,  trying  to  console,  but 
wondering  vaguely  why  she  had  broken  down  so 
utterly. 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  out.  You  met  my  father ; 
he  was  not  quite  of  your  class ;  you  loved  him  and 
married  him ;  then  he  had  to  leave  you — and  was  killed. 
Your  own  people  behaved  like  snobs.  Oh,  I  see  it  all, 
you  poor  little  mother.  And  now  the  ice  is  broken  be- 
tween us,  and  together  we'll  face  this  outrageous  scan- 
dal and  fight  it." 

"Together,  yes;    but " 

"  You  told  me  Mr.  Gasgoyne  cared  for  you  once ; 
didn't  he?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  married  the  wrong  woman  anyway.  And  because 
he  was  nice  to  me,  she  started  this,  this  lie.  Everything 
is  growing  clear;  but,  mother,  you  must  tell  me  more 
about  my  own  father — all  about  him.  I — I  don't  care 
a  hang  if  he  wasn't  a  swell.  He  must  have  been  the 
right  sort  or  you  wouldn't  have  married  him.  But  tell 
me  who  he  was,  now?  " 


300  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Still  she  hesitated,  seeing  his  ardent  face,  his  in- 
genuous, troubled  smile. 

"  Mother,  you  must  tell  me.    I — I  insist." 

"  Min,  be  kind  to  me !  Oh,  Min,  if  I  could  spare  you, 
if  I  could  lie  to  you " 

"  Lie  to  me  ?  "    His  face  grew  very  blank. 

*'  I  would  do  it,  yes,  I  would,  ten  thousand  times,  to 
spare  you,  but  it's  too  late.  I  daresay  I  have  been 
foolish,  incredibly  foolish " 

"  For  God's  sake,  mother,  tell  me  the  worst  at 
once ! " 

"  Min,  Richard  Gasgoyne  is  your  father." 

He  stared  at  her,  till  again  she  hid  her  face  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  She  hardly  recognised  his 
voice. 

"  He  is  your  father." 

"  My  father !  Then  he  abandoned  you ;  he  married 
another  woman,  he " 

"  I  would  have  kept  it  from  you  for  ever,  if  I  could. 
He  wished  you  to  know  long  ago ;  it  would  have  been 
wiser  and  easier  for  you." 

"Curse  him!" 

"  Min !  " 

To  her  unutterable  dismay  and  distress  he  broke  into 
virulent  abuse  of  Gasgoyne.  For  the  moment  she  was 
too  confounded  to  account  for  this  amazing  indigna- 
tion ;  then  she  saw  clearly  the  nature  of  the  quagmire 
into  which  her  confession  had  plunged  them.  Gas- 
goyne had  loved,  had  gone  away,  had  been  counted  as 
dead,  but  why,  on  his  return  to  life,  had  he  married 


H  E  R     S  O  N  301 

another  woman?  That  offence  was  abominable,  incred- 
ible, unpardonable.  And  if  she  cleared  him,  she  must 
break  Min's  heart  and  her  own  by  telling  him  the  name 
of  his  real  mother.  In  this  tangle  of  misery,  one  thing 
only  flickered.  She  must  temporise.  Min's  conclud- 
ing words  fell  upon  her  ears. 

"  And  now  he  wants  me  to  go  into  his  business,  to 
step  into  his  shoes.  As  if  I  would.  I  repudiate  him,  as 
he  repudiated  you.  I'll  never  call  him  father.  I  won't 
be  beholden  to  him  for  another  farthing.  Mother!  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  I  entreat  you  to  calm  yourself,  Min." 

"  Calm  myself !  Great  Heavens !  Did,  did  he  pay 
for  my  schooling?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  work  like  a  slave  till  I  pay  him  back.  And  you 
accepted  it?  Oh,  mother !  " 

"  For  your  sake.  How  could  I  refuse  ?  And  iu 
time " 

"  Never,  never,  NEVER !  " 

"Min!" 

He  turned  from  her  roughly  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life. 

"  How  you  could  meet  him  ?  That  day  at  Margate 
— and  since !  " 

He  rushed  out  of  the  room ;  she  heard  the  front  door 
slam  with  a  violence  that  appalled  her. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

DOROTHY'S  first  analysable  emotion  was  the  conviction 
that  she  had  lost  her  son,  that  never  again  would  he 
look  at  her  with  the  love  and  respect  inseparably  con- 
nected which  the  devotion  of  eighteen  years  had  inspired 
in  him.  She  repeated  to  herself  despairingly  that 
she  had  acted  for  the  best,  and  repeating  this  she 
knew  that  she  ought  to  have  foreseen  this  hour,  and 
foreseeing  it  would  have  acted  differently.  She  sent 
for  Susan.  When  she  had  told  her  faithful  old  friend 
everything,  she  added  deplorably :  "  I  am  a  fool,  a 
sentimental  fool.  You  have  always  known  it;  Lady 
Curragh  has  known  it;  Min's  father  knew  it.  Oh, 
Susan,  comfort  me,  for  I  am  the  most  miserable  and 
perplexed  woman  in  England !  " 

Susan  was  wiping  her  own  eyes  with  a  corner  of 
her  apron  and  in  sore  need  of  comfort,  but  she  plucked 
up  spirit  to  answer  tartly: 

"  Women  always  think  themselves  fools  when  things 
go  wrong.  As  for  me,  I'd  sooner  blame  Providence, 
who  made  us  as  we  are.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  and  my 
sight's  none  o'  the  best  now,  there's  only  one  thing  to 
be  done.  You've  told  him  half  the  truth;  tell  him 
all  of  it,  and  let's  be  quit  of  lies  for  ever  and  ever." 

"  That's  your  advice,  is  it  ?  Well,  I  call  it  heart- 
less." Being  distracted,  she  vented  some  of  her  wrath 
upon  Susan,  as  the  best  of  women  will  do  upon  occa- 
sion. "  Yes,  heartless.  I  am  to  whitewash  myself, 

302 


H  E  R     S  O  N  303 

hold  myself  up  as  a  sort  of  saint,  and  push  poor  Crystal 
Wride  deeper  into  the  dirt." 

"  He  is  young  and  strong." 

"  That's  it ;  if  he  were  older  and  wiser  I  could 
tell  him." 

"  If  you  don't  tell  him,  his  father  will." 

"What?  Break  his  word  to  me?  And  he  won't 
speak  to  his  father  again,  he  is  furious  with  him,  be- 
cause  ' 

"  Yes,  yes,"  interposed  Susan  testily,  "  and  he'll 
tell  him  to  his  face  what  he  thinks  of  him.  And  at 
the  first  opportunity,  too.  It's  lucky  Mr.  Gasgoyne  is 
in  London." 

"  He's  in  Winchester,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  Lor' !    And  we  chattering  here !  " 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Master  Min  has  gone  straight  to  his  father.  Take 
my  word  for  it." 

"  He  doesn't  know " 

"  He'll  soon  find  out." 

"  Susan  !   If  they  should  be  together  now?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  a  little  bit.  I'll  get  your 
jacket  and  hat  at  once." 

Some  sort  of  action  seemed  inevitable.  Susan 
bustled  upstairs;  Dorothy  tried  to  recall  whether  or 
not  she  had  spoken  to  Min  at  breakfast  of  Dick's 
arrival.  She  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  not.  At  any 
rate  no  time  was  to  be  lost.  Dick  might  appear  unex- 
pectedly ;  he  was  likely  to  meet  Min  in  the  street.  She 
must  see  him  first  to  warn  him,  to  entreat  his  forbear- 
ance and  patience  with  headstrong  youth. 


304  H  E  R     S  O  N 

Awaiting  Susan,  she  walked  to  the  window  just  in 
time  to  see  Min  striding  up  the  path.  She  heard  his 
step  in  the  hall,  and  the  next  moment  he  had  entered 
the  room  and  taken  her  in  his  arms. 

"  I  have  been  a  selfish  cad,"  he  cried.  "  Oh,  mother, 
I  rushed  off  without  a  word,  like  a  madman,  but  I've 
come  back  to  tell  you  how  I  love  you.  At  any  rate 
I  have — you.  You  are  mine,  all  mine.  I  don't  care 
what  has  happened,  you  believe  that?  It  makes  no 
difference,  except  that  I  love  you  more.  Oh,  poor 
little  mother,  how  could  I  leave  you?  " 

And  she  had  doubted  him! 

Perhaps  at  this  moment  Dorothy  reaped  the  first 
fruits  of  her  reward.  This  was  in  truth  her  very  son 
claiming  her  as  his  own.  A  warm  glow  suffused  every 
fibre  of  her  being.  She  had  not  been  foolish ;  she  had 
been  wise.  What  sustained  Min  in  his  hour  of  agony 
was  the  reflection  that  he  was  her  flesh  and  blood.  She 
heard  the  eager  passionate  voice :  "  I  would  sooner 
be  your  son  than  the  son  of  an  empress.  Say  you 
believe  me ! " 

"  I  do,  I  do." 

"  We'll  get  out  of  this  beastly  place.  I  have  thought 
it  all  out "  (he  had  been  absent  less  than  half  an  hour) . 
**  We  can  go  to  Canada.  We  shall  stick  together. 
My  God !  how  I'll  work  for  you.  Oh,  you  poor  little 
mother ! " 

He  kept  on  repeating  this  phrase,  indicating  his 
absorbing  consideration  for  her,  the  rejection  of  self — 
being  afire  to  console,  to  compensate,  to  protect. 

"  You  are  my  son,  my  dear,  dear  son." 


H  E  R     S  0  N  305 

The  words  were  uttered  as  if  they  were  a  sacrament. 
She  was  so  proud  of  him  that  a  note  of  triumph  became 
audible  to  the  young  man.  He  said  quickly :  "  You. 
are  not  ashamed  of  me?  " 

"  Ashamed  of  you  ?  Never.  What  you  have  been  to 
me,  you  can  never  know.  Before  you  could  speak,  when 
your  tiny  arms  clung  to  me — when  I  thought  that 
you  were  to  be  taken  from  me — ashamed?  Never  think 
that,  my  darling." 

"  You  shall  be  proud  of  me  yet.  I  swear  it. 
Hullo ! " 

A  discreet  tap  at  the  door  was  heard.  Susan  Jud- 
kins  was  descending  with  Dorothy's  things  in  her  hand, 
when  Min  rushed  back  into  the  house.  Whereupon 
Susan  hastily  laid  down  jacket  and  hat  upon  a  chair 
and  retired,  not  to  her  pantry,  where  much  work  awaited 
her,  but  to  the  bedroom  upstairs,  whence  an  extended 
view  of  the  St.  Cross  Road  was  obtained. 

"  It's  Susan,"  said  Dorothy ;  then,  in  a  swift  whis- 
per, she  added:  "  Susan  knows,  but  say  nothing  to 
her  now.  Come  in !  " 

Susan  entered,  rather  tottery. 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne  is  coming  down  the  road,"  she 
gasped  out  and  fled. 

"  He  dares  to  come  here?  "  said  Min.  At  once  his 
manner  changed  with  a  swift  transition  from  tender- 
ness to  hardness.  It  was  Crystal's  son  who  spoke. 

"  I  shall  speak  to  him." 

"  No." 

"  Mother,  I  must — and  alone." 

"  No,  no." 


306  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  Then  I  speak  in  your  presence." 

"  So  be  it,"  she  resigned  herself,  unable  to  struggle 
against  too  strong  circumstances.  "  Only  remember 
that  he  is  your  father — and  he  loves  you." 

"  I  can  only  remember  that  he  outraged  and  de- 
serted you." 

There  was  not  time  to  exchange  another  word.  Min 
went  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room.  Dorothy  stood 
trembling  near  the  door. 

Gasgoyne — it  may  be  imagined — had  not  come  to 
Winchester  without  definite  purpose.  Indefiniteness  he 
had  always  despised  as  the  clumsy,  amorphous  mark- 
of-thumb  of  a  weakling.  Such  men,  moreover,  never 
look  back,  except  possibly  with  the  intention  of  noting 
past  mistakes,  so  as  to  avoid  similar  blunders  in  the 
future. 

As  he  walked  down  the  St.  Cross  Road,  he  had  never 
been  so  sensible  of  his  power,  and  in  particular  that 
ability  to  adjust  what  most  men  regarded  as  the  in- 
adjustable.  His  wife  was  dead  and  buried.  He  had 
regained  freedom.  He  walked  as  if  he  rejoiced  in  this 
freedom,  holding  his  head  high,  flashing  his  glance 
upon  the  foot-passengers  he  met.  The  St.  Cross  Road, 
part  indeed  of  the  famous  highway  between  London 
and  Southampton,  stretched  straight  and  wide  in  front 
of  him.  At  this  moment  he  was  thinking  of  Southamp- 
ton and  of  the  lure  of  that  vast  shadowy  empire  in 
whose  government  he  had  such  an  ever-increasing  in- 
terest. He  was  thinking  also  of  Dorothy,  of  what  she 
had  endured  for  his  sake,  and  of  the  reparation  he  was 


H  E  R     S  O  N  307 

about  to  offer.  He  knew,  none  better,  what  the  world 
was  saying  of  her.  He  was  aware  of  what  influence  he 
had  brought  to  bear  to  keep  her  name  out  of  the  great 
newspapers ;  and  he  knew  that  his  future,  if  he  mar- 
ried her,  depended  upon  the  purification  of  that 
name. 

Busy  as  he  had  been  during  the  past  week,  his 
most  strenuous  thought  had  been  given  to  this — the 
solving  of  a  domestic  problem.  And  the  solution,  now 
that  he  had  reached  it,  seemed  so  obvious.  This  young 
man,  his  son,  must  be  told  the  whole  truth,  foolishly 
withheld  so  long ;  Dorothy's  good  name  must  be  vindi- 
cated privately  and  publicly.  The  Helminghams,  the 
Curraghs,  Lady  Ipswich,  would  undertake  this  duty. 
Gasgoyne,  too  much  in  the  public  eye  to  be  sensitive, 
had  told  himself  that  the  kingdom  should  ring  with 
the  story  of  Dorothy's  self-sacrifice.  What  she  had 
done  was  superb,  epic,  but  not  common  sense.  He,  how- 
ever, would  adjust  that. 

In  this  spirit  of  not  unnatural  self -inflation  Richard 
Gasgoyne  entered  Dorothy's  drawing-room. 

Instantly,  he  perceived  that  he  had  come  at  a  dra- 
matic moment.  What  to  others  might  have  seemed 
coincidence,  to  Gasgoyne  appeared  co-ordination.  He 
had  passed  through  too  many  dramatic  moments  not 
to  be  aware  of  their  value  to  the  man  who  has  a  sense 
of  them — that  flair  which  masquerades  too  often 
as  genius.  His  subordinates  said  that  their  Chief  had 
a  gift  for  arriving  on  time. 

Dorothy  spoke  first.  On  such  occasions  Gasgoyne 
took  care  that  the  other  person  should  always  speak 


308  H  E  R     S  0  N 

first.  She  saw  him  glance  at  Min,  standing  with  his 
back  to  him ;  Dick's  thick  eyebrows  raised  themselves. 

"  He  knows  that  he  is  our  son,"  she  whispered. 

"  Um !  "  growled  Gasgoyne.  He  hesitated  for  one 
moment ;  then  he  approached  the  young  man. 

"  Mm " 

The  young  man  met  his  father's  eyes,  but  ignored 
the  outstretched  hand.  It  was  an  axiom  of  Gasgoyne's 
to  forestall  accusation  by  self-accusation. 

"  Of  course  you  think  me  an  unspeakable  black- 
guard," he  said  tentatively. 

"  Yes." 

"  Just  so.     I  daresay  you  feel  murderous  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  feel  as  I  feel — why  try  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  you  the  greatest  injury  a  father  can 
do  his  son,  but,"  he  shrugged  his  massive  shoulders, 
"  words  are  cheap,  eh?  Do  I  alter  what  I  have  done 
by  grovelling  to  you,  by  saying  that  I  am  sorry?  No. 
The  wrong  has  been  done.  It  can't  be  wiped  out,  or — 
minimised.  I  treat  you  as  a  man.  What  remains? 
Shall  we  say  compensation?  Will  you  look  with  me, 
not  backward  but  ahead?  " 

"  I  refuse — compensation  from  you.  I  won't  take 
a  farthing.  What  you  have  spent  upon  me,  I'll  pay 
back  some  day." 

"  This  is  highfalutin'.  Forgive  the  word,  I  can 
think  of  no  other  that  would  not  hurt  you." 

The  boy — let  us  remember  that  he  was  not  yet  nine- 
teen— might  have  remained  proof  against  everything 
except  Gasgoyne's  unconscious  assumption  of  superi- 
ority. Suddenly  he  burst  out  with  violence : 


H  E  R     S  O  N  309 

"  You  treat  me  as  a  man,  you  say,  but  you  look  at 
me  as  if  I  were  a  child!  You're  my  father,  are  you? 
I  don't  want  such  a  father.  Murderous?  Yes,  I  oould 
kill  the  cur  who  slunk  off  and  left  her " 

"  Min ! " 

"  Let  him  speak,"  said  Gasgoyne  heavily.  The  boy's 
passion  of  rage  seemed  to  shiver  itself  against  his 
impassivity.  From  this  moment  the  force  of  it,  its 
intensity  and  volume  broke  into  fragments.  He  con- 
tinued inter jectionally,  as  Gasgoyne  himself  used  to 
speak  in  those  far-off  days  when  he  became  excited 

"  You  deserve  to  be  killed.  To  ruin  her — such  a 
woman — the  sweetest,  the  best.  And  to  marry  in- 
stead a " 

""  My  wife  is  dead,"  said  Gasgoyne,  with  his  eyes  oa 
the  boy's  face. 

"  You  killed  her,  too." 

"  Min,  I  implore  you — you  don't  know — you " 

"  Let  him  finish,"  commanded  Gasgoyne.  "  This  is 
my  affair,  Doll,  not  yours.  Go  on,  boy !  " 

"  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again,  so  I  may  as  well 
finish.  I  loathe  the  very  sight  of  you.  I  wouldn't 
touch  you  with  tongs  !  You  coward  and  cad !  " 

"  Well  crowed !  "  said  Gasgoyne.  "  At  your  age  I 
couldn't  have  done  better  myself.  Now,  unless  you 
have  more  to  say,  or  unless  you  are  thinking  of  per- 
sonal assault,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  leave  us, 
unless,"  he  looked  curiously  at  Dorothy,  "  unless  you, 
Dorothy,  see  your  way  to  prove  to  this  young  gentle- 
man that  even  the  devil  is  not  so  black  as  youth  and 
inexperience  and  ignorance  may  paint  him?  " 


310  H  E  R     S  O  N 

A  pause  followed.  Something  in  Gasgoyne's  tone 
challenged  the  young  man's  attention ;  very  vaguely 
he  became  aware  that  Gasgoyne's  acceptance  of  these 
insults  was  significant ;  that  beneath  the  impassive, 
slightly  contemptuous  surface  ran  currents  and  cross- 
currents of  which  he  had  no  cognisance.  Glancing 
from  his  father  to  Dorothy,  he  marked  an  extraordi- 
nary expression  of  indecision,  fear,  and  acute  distress 
forming  itself  upon  her  face.  As  he  watched  her, 
frowning,  she  fluttered  towards  him,  laying  an  entreat- 
ing hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Min,  he  is  right,  you  don't  know  everything.  You 
have  been  hasty,  unjust.  Will  you  leave  us  for  a 
moment?  " 

"  If  you  wish  it."  He  moved  slowly  to  the  door, 
and,  turning  on  the  threshold,  came  back  a  few  paces, 
intently  regarding  her.  Gasgoyne,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  had  walked  to  the  window.  Again  the  boy 
tried  to  read  the  face  of  the  woman  whom  he  had 
reverenced  as  immaculate  and  impeccable. 

*'  Mother,"  he  said  said  hoarsely,  "  before  I  go, 

I "  he  paused  irresolutely,  trying  to  soften  what 

must  be  said,  floundering  in  a  sea  of  phrases.  "  If 
I  do  not  know  everything,  that  is  not  my  fault,  is  it? 
He  speaks  of — compensation.  Perhaps  he  has  come 
here,  now  that  his  wife  is  dead,  to — to  offer  you  what 
— what  you  are  too  proud  to  take,  aren't  you?  We 
have  each  other,  mother,  and  there  is  not  room  in  our 
lives  for  him."  Then,  unable  to  interpret  the  expres- 
sion on  her  troubled  face,  carried  away  by  the  fear 


HER     SON  311 

that  possessed  him,  he  concluded  almost  brutally :  "  If 
he  asks  you  to  choose  between  him  and  me " 

Gasgoyne  stared  out  of  the  window,  while  mother 
and  son  tried  to  read  each  other's  hearts. 

"  Go,"  said  Dorothy  softly.  She  put  out  her  hands 
and  pushed  him  from  her,  very  gently.  To  him  the 
action  was  unmistakable.  He  shrank  back  and  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

"  He  is  the  right  sort,"  said  Gasgoyne,  coming 
towards  her.  "  We  shall  make  something  of  him." 

"We?"    Her  lips  trembled. 

"  My  dear  Dorothy,  what  do  you  suppose  has 
brought  me  here?  Come,  come,  this  scene  has  been  too 
much  for  you.  Sit  down,  let  us  talk  comfortably." 

He  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  tenderly,  and  led  her 
to  the  sofa.  For  a  moment  he  waited,  as  if  conceding 
to  her  the  right  to  speak  first.  As  she  said  nothing,  he 
continued  quietly,  but  emphatically: 

"  You  had  an  opportunity  just  now.  Shall  I  tell 
you  that  I  contrived  it?  More,  that  I  foresaw  what 
would  happen,  that  in  a  sense  I  rather  enjoyed  being 
called  a  coward  and  a  cad.  What  a  loyal  son  he  will 
make  after  this !  " 

"After  this?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily.  With  a  slight  intake  of 
his  breath,  and  in  a  subtly  different  tone,  he  exclaimed : 

"  Surely  you  intend  to  tell  him  the  truth  now?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Why  ?  "  He  rose  up,  agitated  for  the  first  time. 
When  Gasgoyne  saw  anything  clearly  that  might  be 


obscure  to  others,  his  Impatience  and  disdain  were  cer- 
tain to  be  shewn.  "  Good  Heavens !  You  ask — why  ? 
Our  future,  his  future,  depends  upon  it.  My  dearest, 
listen !  This  great  political  opportunity  is  within  my 
grasp ;  but  I  will  not  deny  to  you  that  what  has  hap- 
pened here  in  Winchester  may,  I  don't  say  it  will,  but 
it  may,  do  me  an  injury.  I  have  enemies;  England 
is  Puritan ;  the  Nonconformists  have  a  tremendous 
weight  with  the  Prime  Minister.  I  saw  him  yesterday, 
and  he  hinted  at  an  explanation,  not  in  words,  but 
you — understand?  " 

"  I  understand." 

"  It  is  touch  and  go.  I  asked  him  to  trust  me ;  he 
has  most  generously  done  so.  But  Dorothy,  there's 
something  I  want  more  than  any  honour  the  Prime 
Minister  can  confer  upon  me.  I  want  you,  I  want  you, 
Dorothy  Fairfax,  with  every  stain  wiped  from  you. 
I  want  your  people,  your  old  friends,  all  England  to 
know  what  manner  of  woman  you  are." 

"And  Min?" 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  him  live  and  die  believing  me 
to  be  cad  and  coward?  " 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  face.  She  remembered 
what  Min  had  said  about  the  woman  who  was  hanged 
in  Winchester  gaol.  She  saw  his  face.  But,  overmas- 
tering this  memory,  was  the  tremendous  fact  that  she 
had  been  asked  to  give  up  her  son,  to  renounce  her 
motherhood.  And  she  knew  that  Gasgoyne,  being  the 
man  he  was,  could  never  understand  her  feelings. 

"  It  would  break  his  heart,  and  mine,"  she  mur- 
mured. 


HER     SON  313 

"  Nonsense !  Forgive  me,  Doll,  but  men's  hearts  are 
rather  tougher  than  you  suppose.  What  difference  will 
it  make?  " 

"  That  you  should  ask  that?  " 

"  I  do  ask  it — as  a  right.  The  whole  truth  must 
be  told.  Everything  will  be  adjusted.  You  will  take 
your  proper  position  in  the  world  again  as  my  dear 
wife.  And  I  can  make  the  world  receive  him  as  my 
son." 

"  But  never  mine !  " 

"  You  are  distracted." 

"  Oh,  Dick,  I  am  indeed." 

"  Then  let  me  think  and  act  for  you."  He  tried 
to  gain  possession  of  her  hand,  but  she  evaded  his 
grasp.  Her  brain  seemed  to  be  melting,  because  the 
demand  upon  it  was  too  great.  But  the  sure  instinct 
of  a  woman  told  her  that  the  gain  of  a  father  would 
never  compensate  Min  for  the  loss  of  his  mother.  He 
had  used  the  word  flesh  and  blood — and  rightly.  He 
was  bone  of  her  bone ;  her  bowels  yearned  over  him. 
In  this  supreme  moment  she  regarded  Gasgoyne's 
hostile  eyes,  because  he  was  about  to  tear  her  asunder 
from  her  son.  And  he  knew  it.  She  saw  his  jaw  set, 
his  eyes  grow  cold. 

"  He  stands  between  us.  Well,  it  has  come — as  he 
said — to  a  choice  between  him  and  me.  Which  are  you 
going  to  take?  " 

"  If  I  could  see  plainly " 

"  I  see  plainly.  You  love  him,  Crystal's  son,  better 
than  you  do  me.  Look  at  me !  Deny  it,  if  you  can." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 


314.  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said  simply. 

He  glared  at  her  speechless,  unable  to  believe  his 
ears,  assured  that  he  had  triumphantly  forced  the 
situation. 

"  Then  keep  him !  "  he  answered  violently.  Master- 
ing himself,  he  spoke  the  final  words  deliberately :  "  The 
day  may  come  when  he  will  regret  this — you  are  taking 
my  bread  from  your  son's  mouth." 

For  the  third  time  in  her  life  she  heard  a  door  slam 
between  herself  and  him. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHEN  Min  left  the  drawing-room,  he  paused  for  a 
moment  and  then  ran  upstairs.  Upon  the  landing  he 
encountered  Susan.  Afterwards  Susan  confessed  that 
never  in  her  life  had  she  been  so  flustered  as  at  that 
moment,  which  accounts  adequately  for  what  followed. 
Her  head  whirled,  but  the  instinct  to  console  remained 
paramount.  She  followed  Min  into  his  room,  and 
shut  the  door.  Blinded  as  the  boy  was  by  passion  and 
misery,  the  love  and  fidelity  of  his  old  nurse  flared 
across  his  vision. 

"  Oh,  Susan,"  he  said,  "  I  have  lost  her." 

"  My  pore  lamb !    Then  you  know " 

"  I  know  everything." 

At  this  moment  indignation  entered  into  the  soul 
of  Susan  Judkins.  It  seemed  incredible  that  Dorothy 
should  allow  Min  to  bear  this  crushing  blow  alone,  but 
the  fact  stared  her  in  the  face,  bellowed  in  her  ears. 

"  I  have  lost  her." 

He  flung  himself  upon  his  bed,  face  down  upon  the 
pillow.  Susan  watched  him  with  compressed  lips  and 
nervously  moving  fingers.  She  burned  to  comfort  him, 
but  she  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

Min,  perhaps,  was  conscious  of  her  presence,  but  it 
made  no  difference;  he  was  past  the  stage  of  sensi- 
tiveness to  outward  things  and  persons.  In  his  brain 
festered  the  conviction  that  his  mother  was  about  to 

315 


316  HER     SON 

accept  as  husband  the  man  who  had  caused  her  and 
him  indescribable  anguish.  That  she  should  do  this 
undermined  everything  he  had  held  to  be  good  and 
true.  Was  she  shameless?  He  would  have  killed  the 
man  who  dared  to  say  so,  but  her  face  when  he  left 
her  was  unrecognisable.  If  she  had  struck  him,  when 
he  suggested  that  hideous  word,  compensation,  he  could 
have  fallen  at  her  feet  and  adored  her.  He  had  flushed 
scarlet  when  he  hinted  at  it.  But  she — she  intended  to 
accept  it.  Is  it  surprising  that  he  told  Susan  he  had 
lost  her? 

"  My  pore  lamb ! " 

She  sat  down  by  the  bed,  anxiously  regarding  him, 
seeing  him  as  helpless  baby,  as  urchin,  as  schoolboy, 
seeing  him  always  gay  and  ardent,  now  abashed,  wild 
with  misery.  The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  fell 
slowly  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks.  She  was  furious 
because  her  tongue  and  wits,  ordinarily  nimble,  now 
seemed  palsied;  she  felt  that  her  mistress  had  failed, 
and  that  it  behoved  her  not  to  fail.  Maternal  instincts 
had  bloomed  long  ago  in  her  heart,  their  fragrance  had 
sweetened  unnumbered  hours.  She  wondered  if  Master 
Min  had  any  idea  of  the  strength  of  her  love.  Very 
tentatively  she  put  out  her  hand,  stained  and  wrinkled 
by  the  service  of  fifty  years,  and  touched  the  head 
upon  the  pillow. 

"Master  Min " 

He  made  no  answer,  but  the  hand  was  not  shaken  off 
as  she  had  feared  it  would  be. 

"  Master  Min,  you  'ave  lost  her  in  a  way  of  speak- 
ing, but  don't  let  her  think  you  think  so." 


H  E  R     S  O  N  317 

Min  growled  out :  "  I  must,  I  must.  Do  you  suppose 
that  things  can  go  on  as  they  were.  Oh,  Susan ! " 

She  saw  him  writhe,  and  the  pain  in  her  own  heart 
loosened  her  tongue. 

"  Master  Min,  I'm  only  a  f  oolish  old  woman,  but  I 
know  that  things  and  persons  are  never  quite  as  bad 
as  they  may  seem,  never !  I'm  not  going  to  say  a  word 
against  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  but  she  did  desert  you,  and  if 
my  Miss  Dorothy  had  never  given  up  her  whole  life 
for  you,  where  would  you  have  been  to-day,  Master 
Min?" 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  He  sat  up,  galvanised  into 
nervous  activity.  Susan,  with  eyes  dimmed  by  tears, 
continued  hurriedly: 

"  I  said  at  the  time  we  was  making  an  'ole  and  cor- 
ner affair  of  it,  but  we  acted  for  the  best,  Master  Min. 
You  must  always  believe  that,  and  now  that  she  can 
be  happy  you  ought  to  thank  God,  'ard  though  it  may 
be  for  you  to  do  it.  Why,  Master  Min ! " 

Min  had  grasped  both  her  hands  and  was  holding 
them  firmly,  staring  into  her  dim  eyes. 

"  Susan,  when  did  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  desert  me?  " 

Certainly,  he  had  his  father's  great  gift  of  speaking 
to  the  point.  Susan  had  just  made  what  appeared  to 
him  the  most  astounding  statement  he  had  ever  heard. 

"  When  you  was  a  baby." 

"  Did  she?  " 

"  Surely  they  told  you  that." 

"  No,  they  didn't  tell  me— that." 

He  let  go  of  her  hands  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Outside  the  sun  shone  clearly  in  a  rain-washed  sky, 


318  H  E  R     S  O  N 

but  the  dust  of  the  universe  seemed  to  have  got  into 
his  head.  By  accident  Susan  had  revealed  a  great 
secret.  He  could  not  grasp  it  as  yet,  but  he  must  ask 
more  questions,  he  must  dissemble  for  a  little  while. 
With  his  back  turned  towards  his  old  nurse,  he  asked 
quaveringly : 

"Who  was  she?" 

"A  pore  actress  at  one  o'  the  'alls."  H's  forsook 
poor  Susan  in  moments  of  stress. 

"  Then  she  was  not  a — lady  ?  " 

"  She  called  herself  one,"  replied  Susan  desperately. 

"  Susan,"  he  said,  "  you  have  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag.  Now,  you  must  tell  me  everything." 

Susan,  gaping  at  him,  utterly  confounded,  said 
"LorM" 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning ! "  he  commanded. 

He  was  very  pale,  but  he  spoke  quietly,  although 
emphatically.  Men  desperately  wounded  in  battle  have 
frequently  recorded  the  fact  of  their  insensibility  to 
severe  wounds  inflicted  after  they  have  first  been 
stricken  down.  It  is  certain  that  for  the  moment  Min 
hardly  realised  that  he  was  not  Dorothy's  son,  or  rather 
the  intelligence  found  him  unable  to  feel  it,  although 
he  could  see  and  hear  it,  because  his  sensibilities  were 
benumbed  by  previous  suffering.  At  his  curt  words 
Susan  broke  down,  protesting  that  her  mistress  would 
never  forgive  her.  However,  she  managed  to  sob  out 
most  of  the  story,  and  perhaps  her  artless  recital  in- 
creased rather  than  diminished  the  pathos  and  irony  of 
it.  Min  listened  in  silence,  conscious  that  he  was  iso- 
lated, that  he  could  see  and  understand  everything  from 


HER     SON 

the  point  of  view  of  an  outsider.  But  to  himself  he  kept 
on  thinking :  "  She  is  speaking  of  me,  of  me.  I  was 
left  in  a  Foundling  Hospital;  I  have  no  name?  " 

"  We  acted  for  the  best,"  wailed  Susan  Judkins. 

She  had  punctuated  every  phrase  with  this. 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  said  Min.  He  took  her  hand 
and  patted  it.  "  Dry  your  eyes,  Susan.  I  can't  take 
it  in,  that's  a  fact,  but  you  acted  for  the  best — I  know 
that." 

"  God  bless  you,  Master  Min ! " 

"  You  poor  old  dear,  you're  shaking  like  a  jelly." 

His  sympathy  for  others,  always  his  most  gracious 
characteristic,  began  to  flow  again.  Susan's  distress 
made  a  sudden  and  overpowering  demand  upon  it. 

"  Stop  it ! "  he  commanded.  "  You  are  not  ta 
blame." 

"  You  said  you'd  lost  her,  Master  Min." 

"  So  I  did.  I  meant  something  else.  Never  mind. 
Susan,  look  here,  howling  won't  help  any  of  us.  And  I 
want  your  help — badly." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  staring  at  her. 
The  youthfulness  of  his  face  had  faded  out  of  it. 

"  I'm  rattled,"  he  muttered,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
eyes  as  if  to  brush  away  obscuring  films.  "  I'm  dazed, 
Susan,  I  can't  think  why  she — she " 

"  She?  "  echoed  Susan  disdainfully.  "  If  you  want 
to  break  the  tenderest  heart  in  the  world,  you'll  call 
her  *  she  '  instead  of  '  mother.'  " 

His  features  softened. 

"  Why  did  mother  do  this  for  me,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Master  Min,  seein'  as  you're  a  man,  which  ain't 


320  H  E  R     S  O  N 

jour  fault,  of  course,  I  don't  know  as  you'll  ever  be 
able  to  understand  that.  But  I'll  do  my  best  to  tell 
you.  Your  mother  took  care  of  you  first,  because  she 
loved  your  father;  and  she  took  care  of  you  secondly 
because  she  loved  you.  She's  never  said  so  to  me,  but 
it  wouldn't  surprise  me  to  learn  that  at  the  very  first 
she  hated  you  nearly  as  much  as  I  did,  and  now  I  be- 
lieve you're  the  greatest  thing  on  earth  to  her — yes, 
the  greatest." 

"What  an  angel!" 

"  You  may  say  that,  Master  Min." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

The  slam  of  the  door  below  echoed  through  the 
small  house;  then,  quite  distinctly,  Gasgoyne's  step 
was  heard  in  the  hall,  and  the  slam  of  the  hall  door. 
Min  went  to  the  window.  Gasgoyne  was  going  away. 
At  the  wicket  he  turned,  looking  back.  Min  could  see 
his  face  plainly — not  the  face  of  a  successful  lover! 
It  was  twisted  by  anger  and  humiliation — the  humilia- 
tion of  defeat  overpowering  one  who  has  a  right  to 
reckon  himself  a  conqueror. 

"  He  is  going,"  said  Min.  "  Oh,  Susan,  she  has  sent 
him  away  without — without " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  for  the  expression  on 
Susan's  face  struck  him  dumb. 

"  I  told  you  that  you  was  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world  to  her." 

"  Susan — I — I  must  go  to  her.     She's  alone." 

But  Susan  held  up  her  hand,  with  a  gesture  familiar 
in  nursery  days. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  321 

"  You  stay  here,  Master  Min !  When  she's  ready, 
your  mother  will  come  to  you.  You  won't  have  long  to 
wait." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  her  mouth,  when  Min 
heard  Dorothy's  light  step  on  the  stairs. 

"  Susan,  you  must  say  something — give  her  a  hint.'* 

The  door  opened,  and  Dorothy  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old. Min  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  anxiety  for 
him.  She  glanced,  puzzled,  from  Susan  to  him.  Then 
Susan  said  abruptly: 

"  Miss  Dorothy,  I've  let  it  out.  I  always  knew  I 
should.  You  won't  forgive  me,  I  daresay,  but,"  she 
paused,  adding  defiantly,  "  but  I've  forgiven  myself 
already." 

With  that  she  rushed  past  Dorothy  into  the  pas- 
sage. 

"  Mother ! " 

Outside  Susan  heard  that  word  sob'  from  the  boy's 
throat,  and  she  heard  also  Dorothy's  gasp  as  Min's 
arms  nearly  strangled  her.  The  old  woman  smiled. 

"  He's  going  to  be  her  own  true  son  now,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

Of  what  passed  between  mother  and  son  we  shall  say 
nothing.  We  may  indicate — no  more — certain  mental 
phases.  Is  it  too  much  to  affirm  that  in  losing  his 
mother,  Min  gained  her  for  ever?  Dorothy's  devotion, 
her  love,  her  tenderness  became  infinitely  enhanced, 
because  he  was  not  of  her  flesh  and  blood.  The  mys- 
tery of  it  touched  him  to  issues  higher  than  he  had  ever 


HER     SON 

contemplated.  Not  then,  but  afterwards,  he  realised, 
with  intense  reverence,  that  such  love,  purged  of  all 
earthly  taint,  was  (to  him  at  any  rate)  a  divine  revela- 
tion of  that  greater  Impersonal  love  from  which  it 
emanated.  We  shall  see  that  such  knowledge  inspired 
in  him  an  ardent  desire  to  be  worthy  of  it,  to  cast  aside 
what  was  mean,  and  false,  and  material. 

Presently  Dorothy  went  to  her  own  room,  and  Min, 
somewhat  furtively,  slipped  out  of  the  house.  Gas- 
goyne,  at  his  hotel,  was  packing  a  bag  when  his  son 
came  in. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  "  said  Dick. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Min.  "  I  called  you  hard  names, 
sir,  but  I  didn't  know." 

"You  didn't  know — eh?  And  how  much  do  you 
know  now?  " 

"  Everything,"  said  Min.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Min  talked.  He  had  not  said 
much,  when  Gasgoyne  lit  a  cigar.  Before  the  boy 
was  half  through,  Gasgoyne  had  let  it  go  out — a  thing 
of  rare  occurrence  with  him.  He  threw  it  away  and 
lit  another,  watching  Min  with  growing  interest.  The 
hostility  in  his  glance  flared  up  now  and  again,  and 
then  died  down.  Sometimes  he  felt  that  his  own  son 
was  speaking;  at  others  the  conviction  inflamed  him 
that  the  speaker  was  the  obstacle  between  himself 
and  the  woman  he  wanted.  At  the  end  he  nodded 
approvingly. 

"  You  have  had  a  knock-out,"  he  said,  "  but  you 
Jiave  picked  yourself  up  pretty  quickly,  and  I'm  glad 


H  E  R     S  O  N  323 

you  had  the  sense  to  come  here  at  once  on  your  own 
account,  and  on  mine." 

"  But  I  came  on  hers,"  said  M in. 

"  Hers  ?  "  For  the  moment  he  did  not  understand. 
"Oh!  I  see,  I  see.  You  came  on  hers,  did  you?  She 
didn't  suggest " 

"  Never !  "  exclaimed  Min  angrily. 

"  There,  there !  Keep  your  temper.  You  expect  me 
to  go  back  to  her?  "  Min  nodded.  "  Well,  I  shall  not 
do  so,  because,"  he  smiled  grimly,  "  because  a  woman's 
heart  can  only  hold  one  man  at  a  time.  For  the  moment 
you  occupy  the  premises,  but  when  you  go " 

"When  I  go,  sir?" 

"  You  can  call  me  *  father '  if  you  like.  My  boy, 
I  shall  talk  straight  to  you.  I  never  could  talk  straight 
to  your " 

"  Mother,"  said  Min.  He  scored,  but  he  didn't 
know  it. 

"  I  have  never  talked  straight  to  your  mother.  It's  a 
queer  thing,  but  I  don't  think  quite  straight  when  I'm 
with  her.  She  muddles  me." 

"  Me  too,  sometimes." 

"  Ah !  Shall  we  admit  that  the  spirit  does  muddle 
the  flesh — oh,  intolerably !  But,  between  us,  I  can 
speak  out.  What  are  your  plans  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  try  to  make  a  home  for  her 
somewhere,  unless " 

"Go  on!" 

"  Unless  you  offer  her  one." 

"  But  she  won't  take  what  I  offer,  because  of  you. 
Look  here,  at  Margate  long  ago  she  had  a  moment  of 


324  H  E  R     S  O  N 

— call  it  weakness,  if  you  like.  I  knew  that  I  had 
her  in  my  hand — so !  And  how  I  wanted  her.  But  you, 
a  baby,  you  and  your  claims  outweighed  mine." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Min. 

"  Same  thing  to-day,  when  there  are  no  moral  bar- 
riers, you  stand  in  the  way." 

"  I'll  get  out  of  the  way,  if  it's  best  for  her." 

"  Will  you  ?  You're  a  good  fellow,  Min.  You're 
hard  hit,  as  I  said,  and  you  must  be  seeing  stars.  When 
my  father  died,  when  I  found  myself  penniless  and 
homeless,  I  saw  stars,  too.  By  George!  everything  in 
me  seethed  and  rotted ;  but  out  of  the  rot  came  the  new 
growth — strong,  green,  vigorous.  I'd  been  a  manikin ; 
fighting  for  my  own  hand  made  a  man  of  me.  Do  you 
want  to  fight  for  your  own  hand  as  I  did?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Min. 

"  Then  I'll  help  you,  and  I  won't  hurt  her.  She 
wants  you,  let  her  keep  you.  You  speak  French  well, 
don't  you?  Well,  I  can  give  you  a  billet  in  Paris.  It 
will  be  hard  work,  day  in  and  night  out,  and  you'll 
have  to  start  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder." 

"When  can  I  begin?" 

His  father  looked  at  him ;   then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Shake!"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  father  and  son  eyed  each  other.  When 
Dick  spoke  his  voice  had  lost  the  inflection  of  superi- 
ority. He  said  simply: 

"  She  wishes  the  world  to  believe  you  to  be  her  own 
son.  Tell  her  from  me,  that  I  am  willing  that  it  should 
be  so.  Tell  her,"  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 


H  E  R     S  O  N  325 

frowning,  "  tell  her  that  your  future  shall  be  my 
care." 

"  You  are  very  generous." 

"Am  I?     Urn." 

Min  looked  nervous ;  then,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, he  said  abruptly:  "You  are  going  away?" 
He  looked  at  the  bag  half  open  and  half  packed. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  keep  me  here  now,"  said  Gas- 
goyne,  but  he  looked  with  even  more  acute  attention  at 
the  flushed  cheeks  of  his  son. 

"  If  you  would  do  me  a  favour " 

"Well?" 

"  Stay  here  for  twenty-four  hours  !  " 

Gasgoyne  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  shut  his  mouth 
quickly,  a  gesture  of  his  whenever  he  was  slightly 
perplexed. 

"  I  know  what  I'm  about,"  added  Min,  with  dignity. 

"  I'll  stay." 

"Thank  you— father." 

"  I  see  you  don't  want  me  to  ask  any  questions." 

"  I  would  rather  you  didn't.  Would  it  bother  you 
to  write  a  line  to  your  Paris  people  about  me?  " 

"What?     Now?" 

"  If  you  don't  mind." 

Again  Gasgoyne  stared  at  his  son,  recognising  his 
own  qualities  reproduced  so  strongly  and  yet  with  va- 
riations as  strong. 

"  All  right." 

He  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  a  letter,  enclosing 
it  in  an  unsealed  envelope. 


326  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  That  will  do." 

"  Thanks.    Good-bye." 

They  shook  hands  quietly,  as  Englishmen  will  in 
moments  of  stress.  Possibly  the  elder  man  was  the 
more  moved  of  the  pair.  When  Min  left  the  room  the 
father  sat  down  frowning,  glancing  at  his  bag,  think- 
ing of  the  many  things  in  town  which  clamoured  for 
attention,  but  dismissing  them  with  an  impatient  frown. 
His  mind  settled  itself  on  Dorothy  and  Min. 


CHAPTER     XXI 

i 

NEXT  day,  very  early  in  the  morning,  Min  and  Susan 
might  have  been  seen  in  earnest  conversation — what 
the  Irish  call  "  colloguing."  Dorothy  remained  in  bed 
— spent  by  what  had  passed.  Min  had  come  in  as 
usual  to  kiss  her,  and  she  had  wondered  at  the  fresh- 
ness and  energy  upon  his  face.  But  since  their  long 
talk  together  in  Min's  bedroom,  he  had  said  nothing 
either  of  the  past  or  the  present.  Dorothy  was  content 
that  it  should  be  so.  Brain  and  body  entreated  rest. 
But  he,  the  principal  sufferer,  appeared  to  be  restored, 
to  be  himself.  Only  when  he  left  her,  he  kissed  her 
again  several  times  with  a  warmth  and  tenderness  which 
she  was  able  to  interpret  afterwards. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  writing  letters — never  a  very  con- 
genial task.  One  was  addressed  to  Gasgoyne ;  the  other 
was  written  and  rewritten  several  times  although  it 
filled  only  half  a  sheet  of  ordinary  writing  paper.  This 
letter  he  sealed  and  gave  to  Susan,  whose  face  was  a 
shade  redder  than  usual  and  her  scanty  hair  pulled 
back  so  tightly  that  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  bulging  from 
her  head.  Withal  she  had  assumed  an  expression  of 
triumph,  as  if  she  reckoned  herself  to  be  not  only  a 
planner  and  plotter,  but  one  whose  plots  and  plans  had 
been  carried  to  a  successful  denouement.  Min  divined 
pride;  and  yet  she  did  not  assign  to  herself  the  credit. 

"  I've  been  an  instrument,  Master  Min,"  she  said. 

327 


328  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"You  have,  indeed,"  Min  assented  gravely. 

"  I've  wondered  and  wondered,"  murmured  Susan, 
"  why  such  a  stupid  old  silly  as  I  really  am  held  so 
tight  on  to  living." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  now  you're  ready  to  go?  " 

"  No,  Master  Min,  I  want  to  live  just  as  long  I 
can." 

"  Poor  old  Susan !  You've  had  some  bad  times." 

"Bad?  Yes.  When  my  Miss  Dorothy  began  to 
play  ducks  and  drakes  with  her  good  name,  I  nearly 
died.  But,  there,  we're  tougher  than  we  think." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Min. 

Very  shortly  after  this,  these  two  might  have  been 
seen  sneaking  out  of  the  back  garden ;  Min  carrying 
a  portmanteau,  and  Susan  following  with  handbag  and 
umbrella.  At  the  back  door  stood  a  fly. 

"  Good-bye,  you  old  duck !  " 

Regardless  of  the  driver,  who  looked  very  much 
astonished,  Min  embraced  Susan  with  vigour.  Then 
he  entered  the  fly,  telling  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the 
station.  Susan  went  back  to  the  house.  Half  an  hour 
later  she  gave  to  Dorothy  Min's  letter ;  but  she  left  the 
room  before  Dorothy  broke  the  seal. 

"  Darling  Mother,"  it  began ;  "  When  you  open  this 
I  shall  have  started  for  Paris,  where  I  shall  find  work 
waiting  for  me,  the  work  I  like,  the  work  of  a  jour- 
nalist, which  may  lead  to  everything  now-a-days. 

"  Why  have  I  left  you  so  suddenly  ? 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  quite  honestly. 
But  I'll  try.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  called  at  the 


H  E  R     S  O  N  329 

Deanery,  at  the  Barracks,  upon  Mr.  Heseltine,  who  is 
a  stunner  and  no  mistake,  and  upon  the  Head  Master. 
At  the  Barracks  I  was  lucky  enough  to  find  the  Colonel 
in.  I  told  everybody  the  truth,  and  what  you  did  for 
me.  They  won't  cut  you  again,  you  angel,  but  you 
may  have  to  cut  and  run  from  their  slopdoshing.  My 
father  doesn't  know  what  I  have  done.  He  told  me  to 
tell  you  that  he  would  look  after  my  future,  and  with 
the  attention  I'm  going  to  give  to  that  same,  I  ought 
to  flourish.  Because  I'm  nobody,  I'm  the  keener  to 
make  myself  somebody.  Do  you  remember  what  you 
said  when  we  looked  at  the  gaol  from  the  Battery  Hill 
about  the  children  of  love — that  there  was  a  place  for 
them,  and  that  Nature  sometimes  made  them  stronger 
than  the  others? 

"  But  why  have  I  run  away? 

"  Well,  the  snob  is  not  quite  out  of  me,  but  the  beast 
is  dying — I  can  feel  him  squirming  feebly.  I  couldn't 
face  the  crowd,  not  even  with  you  beside  me.  So  I 
offed  it.  I'll  write  from  Paris. 

"  Your  own  son,  for  ever  and  ever, 

"  MIN." 

Dorothy  shewed  the  letter  to  Susan. 

"  His  father  persuaded  him  to  do  this." 

"  Not  he." 

"  Susan,  it  has  driven  him  from  his  home,  from  us." 

"  We  can  follow  him." 

"  I  think  not ;  he  has  left  us.  Oh,  Susan,  it  is  a 
great  thing  that  he  has  done,  but  I  have  lost  him — 
I  have  lost  him." 


330  H  E  R     S  0  N 

She  sat  down  trembling,  divining  that  the  moment 
which  all  loving  mothers  dread  had  come  to  pass.  The 
young  bird  had  flown  from  the  nest,  and  she  was  left 
in  it  alone ! 

At  luncheon  Susan  tried  to  tempt  her  with  the 
famous  omelette  which  she  had  learned  to  make  in 
Touraine.  Dorothy  could  hardly  swallow  a  morsel. 
Her  eyes  rested  on  the  small  silver  mug  upon  the  side- 
board which  Min  had  used  as  a  child.  There  were  other 
mugs,  trophies  recording  his  success  as  an  athlete  and 
racquet  player,  and  on  the  mantel-shelf  lay  one  of 
his  pipes,  overlooked  in  the  excitement  of  a  sudden  de- 
parture. Susan  hung  about — anxious  to  console,  but 
unable  to  speak ;  Dorothy  went  into  her  own  room, 
and  looked  at  half  a  dozen  objects,  quite  worthless  in 
themselves,  which  she  valued  far  more  than  her  best 
coloured  prints.  She  had  Min's  first  shoe,  several  locks 
of  hair,  gradually  darkening  in  tint,  each  dated,  a  tiny 
front  tooth  which  he  had  pulled  out  in  great  triumph, 
his  best  frock  worn  just  before  he  was  breeched,  his 
first  letter,  and  an  absurd  black,  curly-coated  dog  with- 
out which  the  urchin  refused  to  go  to  bed. 

The  dog  brought  to  mind  Solomon  and  his  son, 
Benjamin.  After  Benjamin's  death  Dorothy  lived 
without  a  dog,  because  she  had  the  feeling  that  his  place 
could  never  be  filled. 

"  He  has  left  me,"  she  whispered  again  and  again. 

And  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  Min  did  not  wish  her 
to  follow  him  to  Paris.  She  guessed  that  the  most 
ardent  desire  of  his  heart  was  not  to  cancel  his  obliga- 
tions, but  to  prove  that  her  never-failing  tenderness 


H  E  R     S  O  N  331 

and  self-sacrifice  had  not  been  manifested  in  vain,  that 
he,  in  his  turn,  must  find  a  fitting  home  for  her — the 
work  of  his  head  and  hands.  And  what  more  natural? 
She  told  herself  that  she  rejoiced  in  his  strength  of 
purpose,  in  his  pluck,  in  his  self-effacement.  And  yet 
the  stupendous  fact  remained  that  he  had  gone,  that 
he  would  never  come  back  quite  the  same,  that  the 
old  sweet  order  had  passed  away — the  boy  had  put 
aside  childish  things  for  ever — she  looked  at  the  curly- 
coated  dog  and  sighed — Min  was  now  and  henceforth 
concerned  only  with  what  appertains  to  the  man. 

Presently,  Susan  bustled  up  to  say  that  Mrs.  Hesel- 
tine  wished  to  see  her.  Dorothy  was  tempted  to  send 
down  an  excuse,  but  she  ended  by  receiving  the  small, 
bright-eyed  little  woman. 

"  Min  told  us  everything,"  she  burst  out,  "  and  in- 
deed I  had  to  come  and  say  what  you  know  already, 
that  he  is  one  of  the  best,  as  my  David  puts  it,  one 
of  the  best." 

"  But  he  has  gone." 

"  My  dear,  they  all  go." 

"  Your  David  did  not  leave  you." 

"  He  would  leave  me  at  a  word  from  you." 

"  If  I  could  have  said  that  word " 

"  My  dear,  I  think  I  understand ;  and  so  does  he. 
And  we  always  knew,  both  of  us,  that  you  were  the  most 
wonderful  creature.  Dear  me!  Here  is  Mrs.  Chat- 
field  coming  to  call." 

She  rose,  guessing  the  nature  of  Mrs.  Chatfield's 
errand,  but  Dorothy,  with  slightly  heightened  colour, 
begged  her  old  friend  to  remain. 


332  H  E  R     S  O  N 

"  It  will  make  it  easier  for  me.  She  cut  us  only  last 
Sunday,  but  I  bear  her  no  malice." 

Mrs.  Chatfield  came  in,  rather  red  and  shiny  of 
complexion.  When  she  spoke  the  words  dropped  from 
Her  mouth  one  by  one  with  measurable  pauses  between, 
as  if  she  had  carefully  appraised  their  value  and  weight, 
and  dealt  them  out  somewhat  grudgingly : 

"  Miss — Fairfax — you — will — forgive — me?  " 

"  Never !   If  you  say  another  word  about  it." 

Mrs.  Chatfield  sat  down,  glancing  at  Mrs.  Hesel- 
tine. 

"  The  town  can  talk  of  nothing  else,"  she  said.  "  My 
first  housemaid,  an  invaluable  servant,  gave  me  warn- 
ing this  morning — most  unprovoked,  but  I  assure  you 
I  have  hardly  thought  of  her.  The  Dean  found  it 
difficult  to  settle  down  to  his  work.  Forgive  me,  but 
did  Lady  Ipswich  know  the  truth  ?  " 

"  No,"  Dorothy  replied.  "  Please  say  no  more,  Mrs. 
Chatfield." 

"  But,  Miss  Fairfax,  you  will  be  interested  to  know 
what  dear  Lady  Hampshire  says." 

"  Upon  my  honour,  I  am  indifferent." 

"  She  uses  the  word  *  heroine.' ' 

Mrs.  Heseltine  nodded  her  approval  of  the  substan- 
tive. Dorothy  felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  This 
was  what  Min  would  call  "  slopdoshing."  And  "  hero- 
ine "  sounded  to  her  ridiculously  inappropriate.  For 
she  was  profoundly  sensible  that  at  bottom  she  was 
the  most  unheroic  and  selfish  of  women,  because  she 
wished  passionately  that  Min  had  held  his  tongue  and 
remained  bound  to  her  apron  strings. 


333 

The  prattle  of  the  ladies,  flowing  faster  and  faster 
now  that  the  awkward  moment  had  passed,  fell  upon 
Dorothy's  dreaming  ears.  Min  had  played  his  part 
so  as  to  secure  for  her  an  interminable  new  lease  of 
life  in  Winchester.  Presently,  her  visitors  rose  to  take 
leave.  Mrs.  Chatfield  glanced  out  of  the  window. 

"The  days  are  drawing  in,  are  they  not?  Soon 
winter  will  be  upon  us;  and,  as  one  gets  older,  the 
winters  seem  to  come  round  faster  and  to  last  longer, 
as  I  was  saying  to  the  Dean  only  yesterday.  Good-bye. 
And  you  have  really  forgiven  me?  "  They  went  away: 
excellent  women,  reflecting  faithfully  the  conventions 
and  traditions  of  the  College  and  the  Close. 

"  I  am  Miss  Fairfax,"  said  Dorothy,  "  and  winter 
is  coming  upon  me." 

She  went  to  the  window  from  which  such  a  far-reach- 
ing view  of  the  St.  Cross  Road  was  obtained.  To 
the  right  lay  the  cemetery  with  its  sentinel  elms  guard- 
ing the  time-stained  stones  beneath;  to  the  left,  not 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  rose  the  spires  and  pinnacles 
of  the  ancient  college ;  in  front,  out  of  sight  but  hard 
by,  the  Itchen  flowed  tranquilly  to  the  sea. 

Standing  at  the  window,  Dorothy  told  herself  that 
she  had  loved  Winchester  because  it  had  been  kind  to 
Min.  Without  Min  Winchester  would  become  intol- 
erably dull  and  tiresome.  If  she  followed  him  to 
Paris ? 

A  memorable  half  hour  followed  in  which  reason 
wrestled  with  impulse.  Dorothy  had  a  vision  of  a 
charming  cottage  just  outside  Paris,  on  the  river,  of 
course,  near  Passy  or  Auteuil.  Fancy  wreathed  it  with 


334  H  E  R     S  O  N 

honeysuckle  and  roses,  furnished  it  delightfully,  painted 
it  white,  with  apple-green  shutters  and  palings. 

She  smiled  derisively,  knowing  that  she  was  evoking 
shadow,  not  substance.  Men  like  Min  did  not  attain 
their  full  stature  in  sweet-smelling  cottages,  tended 
by  loving  women;  pleasaunces  encompassed  by  apple- 
green  palings.  No,  Min  must  range  free,  fighting  for 
his  own  hand,  as  his  father  had  fought  before  him. 

His  father. 

Inevitably  her  thoughts  turned  to  Gasgoyne.  Susan 
brought  the  tea  things  and  a  smoking  hot  Sally  Lunn. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you'd  fancy  that." 

"  Thank  you,  Susan.  By  the  way,  don't  let  me  be 
disturbed.  I'm  not  at  home  whoever  calls." 

"  Very  good,  m'm,"  said  Susan. 

Dorothy  sat  on  after  she  had  drank  her  tea,  staring 
into  the  fire,  thinking  of  Min's  father,  who  now  cared 
more  for  his  ambitions,  his  position,  than  he  did  for 
her.  How  small  a  thing  love  was  to  men ;  how  great, 
how  overmastering  a  domination  to  women ! 

She  closed  her  eyes  with  the  reflection  that  she  was 
old  and  tired  and  faded.  No  doubt  chivalry,  or  grati- 
tude, not  any  warmer  feeling,  had  brought  Dick  to 
Winchester.  In  any  case  he  had  gone  away,  furious. 
He  would  never  forgive  her. 

It  was  the  hour  when — so  doctors  tell  us — the  physi- 
cal powers  of  those  no  longer  young  are  at  a  low  ebb. 
Dorothy  lay  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted:  sensi- 
ble— perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life — that  win- 
ter now  coming  on  would  not  be  followed  by  spring. 
And  somewhere  a  girl  was  growing  up  who  would  be 
Min's  wife — the  first  woman  in  all  the  world  to  him. 


H  E  R     S  O  N  335 

She  shivered  slightly.  At  that  moment  she  heard 
the  doorbell  ring,  and  a  step  outside,  as  Susan  an- 
swered the  bell.  Then  the  door  of  the  drawing-room 
opened. 

"  Who  was  it,  Susan  ?  "  Dorothy  asked,  without  turn- 
ing her  head. 

As  Susan  did  not  answer,  she  turned  her  head  and 
saw  Gasgoyne;  immediately  she  rose,  confused,  taken 
at  a  disadvantage,  sensible  that  she  was  not  strong 
enough  to  cope  with  this  masterful  man. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said  helplessly. 

He  came  forward,  slowly. 

"  I  knew  I  should  find  you  alone,  and " 

"  Min  told  you?  " 

"  He  wrote  me  a  line  saying  that  he  was  leaving  for 
Paris.  I  have  offered  him  work.  He's  a  good  boy. 
He'll  go  far.  You  need  not  worry  about  his  future." 

She  wondered  if  he  knew  what  Min  had  done.  His 
next  words  shewed  her  plainly  that  he  did  not. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  continued  gravely,  "  I  entreated 
you  to  let  me  clear  your  good  name,  once  and  for  all ; 
I  still  think  it  would  be  the  wise  thing  to  do,  but  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned  I  urge  it  no  longer.  You  must 
do  what  you  think  best  for  yourself  and  the  boy.  It's 
hard  for  me  to  put  myself  into  your  shoes " 

He  paused. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Dick?     Have  you  had  tea?" 

"  Hang  tea !  Dorothy,  I've  pushed  myself  in  here — 
Susan,  by  the  way,  must  be  held  blameless — to  say  that 
if  the  boy  must  be  first,  let  me  be  second." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  I  was  a  selfish,  inflated  ass.     I  had  the 


336  H  E  R     S  O  N 

conceit  to  believe  that  the  country  wanted  me  and  that 
you  wanted  me,  and  that  neither  could  prosper  with- 
out me." 

"  The  country  does  want  you." 

"  Does  it?    I  am  not  so  sure  of  that." 

He  laughed  grimly. 

"  How  dark  it  is  getting." 

"  Don't  ring  for  the  lamps !  This  firelight  is  kind 
to  you,  Doll.  Perhaps  it  is  kind  to  me.  Perhaps 
it  softens  what  lies  below  as  well  as  what  is  on  the 
surface.  Don't  ring  for  the  lamps — yet !  " 

In  the  firelight  he  looked  smilingly  into  her  troubled 
face,  into  the  eyes  which  shrank  from  and  yet  turned 
back  to  his.  Unconsciously  he  had  assumed  a  pose 
familiar  long  ago.  So  he  had  stood,  looking  down 
upon  her,  one  elbow  upon  the  mantelpiece,  upon  the 
hearth  rug  at  the  Doll's  house  in  Oakley  Street.  And 
the  soft  glow  of  the  embers  was  kind  to  him,  obliterat- 
ing the  lines  upon  his  face,  softening  the  masterful 
glance  of  his  eyes. 

"  Doll,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  changed  slightly,  losing 
its  remarkable  inflection  of  power,  "  you  don't  want 
me,  do  you,  but  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  badly,  how 
desperately  I  want — you?  " 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  I  want  you  so  badly,"  he  whispered,  "  that  I'll 
chuck  this  big  thing,  which  somehow  doesn't  seem 
so  very  big  after  all,  for  your  sake.  I  tried  to  bar- 
gain yesterday.  To-day,  Doll,  I  surrender — uncon- 
ditionally. If  you  wish  to  live  under  a  cloud,  I'll  live 
under  one  with  you,  gladly.  We'll,"  his  voice  re- 


H  E  R     S  O  N  337 

minded  her  irresistibly  of  the  old  Dick,  "  we'll  share 
the  same  umbrella.  If  England  doesn't  suit  you,  we'll 
find  another  country.  North,  south,  east,  or  west,  it's 
all  the  same  to  me,  if  you'll  let  me  come  too.  Doll," 
the  last  rag  of  restraint  fell  from  him,  as  he  concluded 
desperately,  "  for  God's  sake,  come  and  take  care  of 
me." 

"  You  don't  know  what  Min  has  done?  " 

"Min?" 

She  told  him,  shewed  him  the  letter.  He  read  it 
silently,  weighing  every  word  written  or  implied.  Then 
he  said  slowly: 

"  He  is  your  son." 

"  Dick,  he  has  gone  from  me  for  ever.    Oh,  I  know." 

"  That  is  true,"  he  answered  slowly.  "  And  there 
is  not  a  fond  mother  in  all  the  world  who  has  not  felt 
the  pangs  which  are  tearing  you.  Doll,  at  this  mo- 
ment, don't  you  think  that  you  do  want  me  a  little — 
about  one-twentieth  as  much  as  I  want  you?  I  asked 
you  yesterday  in  my  arrogance  to  let  me  take  care  of 
you;  a  minute  ago  I  asked  you  with  greater  reason 
to  take  care  of  me;  now,  for  the  third  time,  I  beseech 
you  to  let  us  take  care  of — each  other." 

Susan  Judkins  said  afterwards  with  a  complacency 
which  Min  adequately  described  as  "  fat  "  that  noth- 
ing else  could  possibly  have  happened. 

"  No  sensible  person,"  she  remarked,  "  could  think 
of  my  Miss  Dorothy  as  an  old  maid." 

THE     END 


